Tortured Reasoning
by Burked And Mossley
Summary: Completed - It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.
1. Darkness Which May Be Felt

**Tortured Reasoning ****  
Authors: **Mossley and Burked   
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.   
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support.   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Darkness Which May Be Felt **

Gil Grissom visually swept the area as he approached the yellow crime scene tape. Milling crowds of morbid onlookers and eerie shadows cast by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles shattered the normally tranquil atmosphere of the children's park. The battered body resting against the gaily-painted merry-go-round completed the effect.

His examination also had a personal aspect. Subtly, he focused on his partner. To an outside observer, Sara Sidle looked the model of detached professionalism, but Grissom recognized the tension caused by her tightly bridled indignation.

This case _was_ going to bother her.

Damn.

Grissom inched closer, a physical offering of the support that he could never find a way to effectively vocalize. His shortcomings had let Sara down before; he wanted to avoid a repeat of the consequences.

When she first came to Vegas, he tried to warn Sara about the dangers of burnout. It was extremely common in their line of work, and with her lack of outside interests, she was a prime candidate. While he'd been unable to convince her of the need for an outlet, his concerns continued to exist.

So Grissom felt more than a modicum of embarrassment that he hadn't caught the signs when it began to manifest.

He'd mistakenly believed her growing distance at work had been a temporary disappointment over not getting the promotion. Feeling a bit guilty over his handling of that situation, he'd chosen to keep some distance between them.

Stealing a sideways glance, Grissom noted the silent determination in Sara's profile. The truth was she evoked feelings in him that were as confusing as they were powerful. And that scared him. Not knowing how to deal with the issues between them, he opted for trying to distance himself from Sara.

But even Grissom had realized something was wrong when she declined to interview Linley Parker. As much as rape bothered her, she had never backed off an investigation before. By then, he'd pushed Sara too far away. After his attempts to help were rejected, he hadn't pressed, unsure how to reach out to her, unable to give her a reason to believe she could trust him again.

It wasn't until he had to face Sara, totally humiliated and isolated in the police station later that Grissom realized just how wrong he'd been. The signs had been there for weeks, months really. She'd been increasingly withdrawn, lacking the vibrancy and enthusiasm he once associated with Sara Sidle.

Driving her home, his heart ached to see her in such pain. Images of the happy-go-lucky, beautiful young woman who first came to Vegas were in stark contrast to the defeated woman who sat next to him. How had this happened?

Two questions haunted him for weeks afterwards: What could he have done differently to help her, and how much did his callousness contribute to the problem?

Grissom hoped the forced vacation and the PEAP counseling would help her overcome the burnout. Sara was an incredibly talented CSI; if she could find a way of dealing with the horrors of the job, she had a brilliant career ahead of her.

He tried not to think what would happen if the counseling didn't help. It would be a shame for her to lose a job that she loved, but what bothered him more was the realization that Sara would have no reason to stay in Vegas. She'd leave him, not that he had given her a reason to stay. The depth of his selfishness surprised him, adding to his confusion over their non-relationship.

Grissom still didn't know what he could have done differently to prevent Sara's decline, but he tried to help in his own way when she returned. All CSIs had crimes that affected them worse than others, and for Sara it was cases involving rape and domestic violence. He'd made a conscious effort to shield her from those while she was in counseling.

It coincided nicely with Greg's need for a mentor. Not only did Sara shine in that role, she had far more patience with the young tech than he did. And Greg seemed more at ease learning from Sara. For some reason that Grissom didn't understand, the DNA tech was afraid of him.

But as well as it worked out, Grissom knew things had to change. Eventually, he'd have to be able to let Greg loose on the unsuspecting citizens of Las Vegas on his own, or the younger man would have to return to the DNA lab permanently.

And he couldn't protect Sara forever. It was neither fair to her nor to the lab to limit her work. If nothing else, there would be nights when he wasn't there, and someone else would give out assignments.

When this call came in, it seemed the perfect experiment. He'd assigned both of them to the case. The young woman had fought with her attacker long enough to attract the attention of a passerby. While it was still a traumatic event for the victim, he hoped it wouldn't prove too intense for Sara.

As a precaution, he was keeping a discreet eye on her, ready to provide assistance if needed.

Holding up the tape for her, Grissom lightly brushed his other hand across Sara's back, a fleeting tactile reassurance.

"You don't have to hover," she said, giving him an amused smirk. "I'm okay."

After overcoming his surprise, Grissom raised an eyebrow in contrition. At least Sara's powers of observation were still as sharp as ever.

Stepping slightly to the side, he led her by an officer talking to an agitated teenage boy who was trying to calm a prancing retriever.

"No, sir. I'm from Laughlin. We're in town visiting my Grams for Thanksgiving. We all got talking, and no one remembered about Pixy. I didn't want Grams going out this late, so I offered," he explained, looking nervously at the new arrivals.

"That was very kind of you," Grissom said soothingly.

"Uh, yeah. So, we were coming by the park, and Pixy started trying to pull away and barking and stuff. I figured it was a cat or something. She hates cats. Then I heard the screaming."

"Is that when you went to help the victim?"

Sara could see the blush creeping up the boy's face even in the dim light. "Uh, not exactly. I guess I panicked. I dropped the leash. Pixy went running into those bushes. Please don't tell my Grams that part. She'll be angry if she finds out I let Pixy get away."

"It's okay," Sara said calmly. "What happened next?"

"I ran after Pixy, and I saw this guy on top of that lady. She was fighting him, and he was beating her and … you know. Pixy ran up and bit him right on the ass … uh, the backside," he said with a touch of pride, ruffling the dog's fur affectionately. "Well, the guy ran off and Pixy went after him. They were too far ahead of me, so I stayed behind to help the lady. Pixy would have caught him, but her leash got caught in the bushes."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Uh, uh. This flashlight's not good. I guess he was average size and stuff. I think he was wearing dark clothes. That's all I saw. Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," Grissom told him kindly. "Some people from Animal Control are coming over…"

"You can't take Pixy!"

"We're not," he insisted. "But we need to get an impression of her bite mark so we can match it up to the attacker."

"It won't hurt her at all," Sara added. "We can have an officer explain what's going on to your grandmother."

"Okay."

Grissom nodded minutely as he stepped to Sara's side. So far, she was handling everything well. The tension was pronounced, but she was focused, brimming with an intensity that he hadn't seen in a while.

They crossed the playground to where the ambulance crew was attending the victim. On the way, he darted his eyes towards her, but this time she turned to give him a pointed stare.

"Why don't you trust me?" she asked softly.

Her question startled him, as did the emotional undertones in her voice. She thought he didn't trust her? If that were true, the gulf between them was worse than he realized. "It's not a matter of trust," he answered gently, recalling an earlier conversation. "I'm … concerned."

"Grissom," she huffed out, her breath making dragon patterns in the cold night air. "I'm fine. Really. If I come across a situation that I find too uncomfortable, as my supervisor, I'll inform you immediately."

He watched her keenly. Sara's response had been delivered in an even tone, but he had the feeling she was merely reciting a phrase she'd learned from her PEAP counselor.

"I am okay," she insisted, shaking her head with after giving him a bemused look. "Trust me."

As they approached the victim, Grissom considered assigning Sara to collecting the physical evidence. It would be easier on her, regardless of whether she was willing to concede the point. But it may not be easier on the victim, who was already showing signs of not wanting to cooperate.

"Could you please leave me alone?" she asked levelly, leaning away from the man holding a roll of gauze tape.

"Miss, we're only trying to help. Your injuries need to be treated," one of the EMTs stated softly.

"I'm refusing treatment. It's not that bad. Please leave. Now," she replied, crossing her arms painfully over her chest. Seeing Grissom and Sara approach, she turned to them directly. "Is my mother here yet? I called her to come get me."

"I don't know," Grissom replied.

The young woman let out a short snort. "Trust me – you'd know if she was here."

Grissom didn't reply, but cocked his head as Sara set her kit down in front of the victim, effectively settling who would process her. He swung his flashlight around the area, looking for physical evidence, but keeping her within sight as he evaluated how she was handling the case.

"Hey, guys, why don't you give us a minute here," she suggested forcefully to the still-lingering EMTs, nodding as they walked away.

Sara knew her performance was being judged. It bothered her that after years of proving herself as a capable CSI that one mistake was enough to have Grissom doubting her competence.

Taking a calming breath, she stopped that line of thought. He'd never directly questioned her abilities, but it was obvious that Grissom had sidelined her, keeping her in the lab more often or helping Greg.

And he was being nice to her.

More than anything, that irked Sara.

There was the possibility that Grissom regretted the loss of their friendship, but she suspected it went deeper than that. Was he feeling guilty, somehow thinking he was to blame for her … unfortunate choice of stress release? Or was it a chauvinistic predisposition to protect the female? He always showed concern when she was hurt.

Deciding that Grissom's tendency to over-think everything was rubbing off on her, Sara gave herself a mental shake and turned her attention to the victim. Her well-being was the priority here.

She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, medium height and slender, with auburn hair and piercing green eyes. Her clothing was torn, and she was bleeding from multiple cuts to her face. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she was managing to hold herself together emotionally.

Sara gave her a kindly smile, slowly approaching so as not to alarm her. "Hey. I'm Sara Sidle. This is Gil Grissom. We're with the Crime Lab."

"I guess that's why you're wearing the vests with 'Crime Lab' written on them."

Sara raised an eyebrow silently. The girl was observant. That could help in describing the attacker. "Yeah, it is. What's your name?"

"Zoe Grey."

"Zoe, can you tell us what happened?"

The younger woman seemed to resist an eye roll. "Why don't you start with the obvious?"

Taking a bindle from her kit, Sara gave her a sad look. "I know this is difficult for you, but anything you tell us could be helpful."

"Damn freaks. This is Vegas. Can't they find a show somewhere on the Strip?" Zoe muttered with annoyance as she took in the onlookers pointing at her.

Sara frowned. While the reaction to rape varied greatly among women, she was too calm. She wondered if Zoe was in shock. Trying another tactic, Sara nodded at the torn sweatshirt. "Harvard. I went there."

"Oh?"

Grissom continued his sweep of the grass, peering over his glasses approvingly. Sara was finding a way to connect to the victim, to help her be able to help herself. Zoe needed to work with them to catch her attacker.

"Yeah. So, are you a student or a friend of one?" Sara asked, taking care to keep her voice smooth.

Zoe let out a patient sigh. "I'm in my senior year. I came home to spend the holidays with my mom. And what do you think you're doing?"

Sara paused in reaching for the girl's hand. "The boy that found you? He said you were fighting your attacker."

"I sure as hell wasn't going to let him rape me without a struggle," Zoe exclaimed, looking away when her voice cracked. After taking a minute to compose herself, she turned back with a quizzical expression.

Sara gave her an understanding shrug. "Your nails are torn. You may have gotten some skin cells under them. We can use that to get something called DNA. That can uniquely identify your attacker."

Zoe flashed her a mock-annoyed glare. "Harvard, remember? I do know what DNA is."

"Sorry," Sara said with a repentant smile. "You'd be surprised how many people don't understand it. May I?"

"Look, I want to go home," Zoe said but holding out her hand reluctantly.

Grissom moved closer to the two women, sitting back on his haunches after bagging some stray fibers. A feeling of unease came over him as he studied the young woman. The way she carried herself and her looks were vaguely familiar, but he couldn't recall seeing her at a crime scene before, and her name didn't ring any bells.

"I understand," Sara told her softly. "But your mother doesn't seem to be here yet. Were you walking in the park?"

"No," she said distractedly, lifting her head to look around. "Traffic must be bad. Which makes sense since it's a holiday. This is not a good city for driving. Not as bad as Boston, but…"

"Zoe, please. I know this is hard…"

For the first time, the younger woman totally lost her composure. "Do you? Do you know what this is like?"

Grissom's attention turned to Sara. He could tell she was frustrated that the woman wasn't cooperating, but she wasn't backing down. Sara was direct, but gentle, when she replied.

"You're pissed, and you don't know how to direct your anger. You're hurt and having a bunch of strangers around isn't exactly helping. You're embarrassed," Sara said sympathetically. "We're here to help you, Zoe. As much as you want this to be over, what we're doing will help catch the man that did this to you."

Zoe shook her head, letting out a long sigh. "Sorry. Didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's okay to be angry," Sara said.

The younger woman made a disparaging sound. "And no, I wasn't walking in a dark park in a bad part of town by myself. I went to see a movie with some friends. When I went to get in my car, the guy jumped me from behind, putting a knife to my throat."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Sara asked, briefly turning towards Grissom. She was unable to totally mask the anxiety in her voice.

"No. He had a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. I told him to take the car, but he threw me in the trunk. When we got here, he dragged me to those bushes. You can figure out the rest."

Grissom stood up slowly, exchanging a wary look with Sara. "Zoe, did he say anything to you?" she asked cautiously.

"You mean besides that I was worthless, the long string of obscenities, and that he was going to cut me up so no one would ever want to look at me again? No, I think that covers it," she sniffed, twisting her body away as she wiped embarrassedly at the fresh tears.

Grissom rubbed his beard, mentally cursing his decision to assign Sara to this case when she dropped her head.

The modus operandi Grey described matched that of a serial rapist who had been striking along the I-15 corridor. It had been months since his last attack, and law enforcement was starting to hope his reign of terror had ended. If he stayed true to his pattern, he'd attack two or three more women in Las Vegas before moving to another town.

All his other victims had been savagely beaten and disfigured after the initial rape. Now he had Sara working what promised to be an excessively violent string of attacks as her first assault case since returning to work. This wasn't what he had in mind, and he feared that it would be too much for her this soon after recovering from her burnout.

Watching her, Grissom could see the flood of emotions in her eyes. But Sara composed herself, suppressing her own misgivings as she tended to their victim.

"Thanks, Zoe," she said, putting the bindle away after taking the nail scrapings. After taking a deep breath, Sara moved back to the young woman. "I need to take some photographs. We can do that in the back of the ambulance."

"No. Look, you have your DNA samples. I'm okay. I want to go home."

Sara looked up when Grissom approached. The kindness in his eyes brought a bit of warmth to her. She was considering the best way to convince Zoe to let them process her when a commotion broke out.

The sound of tires screeching to a halt and the slamming of two car doors caught Zoe's attention, and for a moment Sara could see a glimmer of something pass through the girl's eyes.

"Who the hell?" she stammered, as the newly-arrived young man and woman began arguing vehemently with a deputy who was preventing them from cross the crime scene tape.

"Mom!" Zoe cried out, rushing over to the pair.

The victim fell into her mother's breast, and she was immediately wrapped with consoling arms.

"Shhh. It's all right. It's all right," the woman cooed soothingly.

"I'm so glad you're here," the girl breathed out gratefully.

The CSIs followed, but partway there, Grissom suddenly stopped short. Sara turned back, noticing his discomfort immediately.

"Grissom?" she asked, frowning when she realized he seemed to have paled. She swung her head between him and the victim's mother, at whom he was staring intently.

Sara scowled in bewilderment. The young man – still arguing with the deputy – was dressed in a pair of skin-tight leather pants and little else, despite the cold weather. The mother seemed to be similarly attired. With a nod, she coaxed Grissom back in the direction of the group.

"I'll take care of everything," the mother said with a steely edge to her voice, her eyes lifting from her daughter to meet Grissom's.

"Do you know her?" Sara asked softly, wondering why he stopped again.

"Yes," he whispered, clearing his throat before addressing the mother. "Lady Heather."

_TBC_


	2. I Will Utter Hidden Things

**Tortured Reasoning   
********Authors: **Mossley and Burked   
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.   
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. She read too many versions of this chapter, but not the last part. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

* * *

**Chapter 2 – I Will Utter Hidden Things **

His pulse racing, Grissom stood in the middle of the park, keenly aware that he'd become the center of unwanted attention. Sara was regarding him carefully, an openly inquisitive look on her face. Even Zoe had glanced back at him curiously.

Not surprisingly, Lady Heather's expression was unreadable, but it didn't take a forensic genius to figure out she wouldn't be happy to see him. Even if the circumstances of their reunion had been different, things had ended badly between them.

Pulling himself together, Grissom forced a calm exterior. He needed to stay detached. No matter his discomfort, it couldn't compare to what she and Zoe were experiencing.

The resemblance between Heather and her daughter was strong, and Zoe clearly learned some of her mother's mastery of self-control. She hadn't allowed herself to break down until safely in her mother's arms.

"Heather," he called out, nodding his greetings. "I take it that this is your daughter."

"Yes," Lady Heather answered shortly, twisting around as if shielding Zoe with her body.

The change in position allowed Sara to take in her gossamer-thin black robe over a bustier, shorts and thigh-high boots – all made of black leather.

"Okay, this is getting too weird. Is that who I think it is?" Sara asked softly, shaking her head in bewilderment.

"If you think it's Lady Heather, then yes, it's who you think it is," Grissom murmured, having trouble accepting the fact himself.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Sara tilted her head as she watched Heather gently stroke her daughter's back. She'd heard of the woman – and the rumors surrounding her dealings with Grissom. Those she had chosen to disbelieve, but her other assumptions were already taking a pounding.

"Somehow I'm having a hard time reconciling black leather, whips and chains with motherhood," she admitted in a low voice.

"It's a job. Like any other," Grissom shrugged, moving towards the group that had formed at the perimeter.

Sara mimicked the shoulder roll as she followed. "I bet that made life miserable for Zoe when she was a kid. What do you tell your classmates? 'Oh, my mom is a sadomasochist'."

"They seem close enough to me," he answered uncomfortably. Talking about personal issues was never a task he relished, but Grissom found the idea of discussing Heather with Sara to be especially unpalatable. It wasn't a relationship he wanted to try to explain.

Anyone familiar with Sara knew how much she detested the lifestyle Lady Heather represented. Her reactions to rape and abuse extended to the more … alternative … sexual behaviors. Repeatedly, Sara had stated her distaste of "freaks".

What would she think if she knew that he had been involved, albeit very briefly, with Heather? That question rested uneasily on Grissom.

"Yeah, I imagine Take Your Daughter to Work Day was a real scream. Pun intended," she huffed harshly.

"Sara, enough!" he said forcefully, turning to fix her with a glare. "This is a crime scene. That is the victim. That is the victim's mother. Have some respect."

Sara stood speechless, her mouth slightly agape, a miasma of emotions and thoughts swirling through her head. Foremost was the question of why Grissom was so sensitive to Lady Heather's feelings. The obvious answer gave her no comfort. She nodded slowly, dropping her head slightly.

Immediately, Grissom regretted the severity of his rebuke. He hadn't meant to snap at her like that. While her behavior bordered on tasteless, it really wasn't any different than the gallows humor they often used to cope with their job.

What was different was the victim – more precisely, the victim's mother. It wasn't Sara's fault that he was facing an emotionally difficult situation, but he lashed out at her. Grissom recognized he'd probably lost any ground he made in repairing their friendship that night.

Before he could blunt his earlier response, Sara took a deep breath and raised her head, walking resolutely past Grissom and towards the victim and her mother.

"I'm Sara Sidle, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," she stated as professionally as she could, though there was a slight waver to her voice.

"I'm Zoe's mother," Lady Heather stated simply.

"So I gathered. You're known as Lady Heather, correct?"

The dominatrix ran her eyes over her appraisingly. Sara resisted the urge to draw back from the intrusion, instead staring straightforwardly at Heather. After a moment, she returned the gaze, her head tilting slightly before answering. "That's correct."

"Is that how you want me to address you?" Sara asked.

"Lady Heather. Heather. Doesn't matter to me," she replied.

Sara gave a brief nod of her head, unable to shake the feeling that she was exposed before the older woman. "Um, okay. Heather, we need to get Zoe to the hospital, but she refuses to go."

"I'm fine, Mom. I don't need to go to the hospital. Just some scrapes and bruises. Nothing to get all excited about," the girl said beseechingly.

"If that's what you want," Heather said soothingly, smiling wanly at her daughter.

"You could have internal injuries," Sara said forcefully.

"If anything turns up, we'll call Dr. Tomlinson and he'll come by to take care of you," Heather assured the girl.

"You have a doctor that makes house calls?" Sara couldn't help but ask.

"He's on retainer. My business carries a certain amount of risk," Heather answered evenly.

"Yeah ... uh ... I guess it does," Sara acknowledged uncomfortably.

"Heather, we need a Sexual Assault Evidence examination performed. The evidence we could get will be critical for identifying and prosecuting the man who perpetrated this crime on Zoe," Grissom said hopefully.

"Mom, I just want to put this behind me," Zoe countered. "They took skin samples from under my nails. What else do they need? I don't want this to drag on for years, having to relive it over and over. What's done is done. Move on," she said with conviction.

"You heard my daughter," Heather said, feigning helplessness.

"That's fine, if that's what you want to do," Sara began tentatively. "But the next woman he abducts and assaults might not feel that way. If we catch him now, there won't be a next time."

Zoe shook her head, giving Sara a sad shrug. "I'm not responsible for what he does or doesn't do. That's his karma."

"And how does it help your karma to let him get away with it?" Sara countered, feeling her temper rise when Zoe's mother raised a perceptive eyebrow.

"No one gets away with anything, Ms. Sidle. What goes around comes around," Heather interjected ominously. She turned to the young man who had driven her there, speaking to him in a commanding, yet familiar, tone, "Andre, take Zoe to the car. I'll be along momentarily."

The young man nodded and slipped a protective arm around Zoe's shoulders, leading her back to the black Mercedes sedan.

"Nice car," Sara said, when Heather didn't speak.

"Andre seems to like it. I gave it to him for his twenty-fifth birthday."

"You gave an employee a Mercedes?" Sara asked incredulously.

"Andre is more than an employee," Lady Heather answered, her voice as smooth and thick as honey.

"Oh," Sara said, making her own assumptions.

"He's like a son to me. Came to work for me four years ago. Didn't have a home or a family. He fit so well into ours that it seemed like destiny."

"Oh," Sara repeated, but this time a little chagrined.

Grissom shifted his weight, watching as Andre hunched down by the open car door, clearly comforting Zoe. He'd jumped to the same conclusion as Sara, and it only added to the awkwardness of the situation.

He took a moment to dart his eyes in Sara's direction. The tension was more pronounced in her posture, and once again he found himself wishing he had assigned this case to someone else. The crime itself was horrific enough, but he knew Sara would be frustrated by Zoe's unwillingness to help.

And so far, he hadn't been very helpful. Taking a step forward, he waited until Lady Heather turned to resolutely glare to him.

"Heather, we really need the evidence from Zoe to catch this guy," he said.

"Mr. Grissom ..." she began with a cool, formal edge to her voice. "It seems like any time I try to help you, I end up the focus of the investigation. Now, unless you intend to charge _me_ with this assault, we have no further business with you."

"Heather, Zoe may feel differently after she's not in shock, and then it'll be too late. Most victims get a sense of closure once the perpetrator is convicted," Sara offered.

"I didn't raise a victim, Ms. Sidle. That's what you don't understand. Life is full of suffering. You either succumb to it and become a victim, or you learn the lessons that pain has to teach you."

"What about justice?" Sara asked, almost desperately. The I-15 Rapist was brutal; every law enforcement personnel in the region was on the lookout for him. If Zoe would let them help her, there was a chance they could catch him before he ruined another life.

No one else would have to live with the unrelenting pain.

Lady Heather's eyes bore into Sara's for a moment that seemed interminable.

"Ms. Sidle, you cannot find the justice you're seeking through my daughter. Whatever pain it is that you bear, it's not her pain, and she can't do anything to make it go away."

Grissom snapped his head up. What was she talking about? Sara was empathic to victims; she hated injustice. This wasn't a vendetta for her. It wasn't personal.

Sara huffed, looking quickly over to Grissom, then back at Lady Heather.

"I ... I don't know what you're talking about. I'm trying to find justice for Zoe."

His head tilted in confusion, Grissom flexed his hands. Heather had to be wrong. This wasn't personal for Sara.

So why was she flustered?

"Let Zoe find her own peace. That's her choice. No matter how many bad people you put away, it won't cure the wound inside you."

"This isn't about me!" Sara barked, aware that Grissom was slowly moving closer to her.

Heather regarded her professionally. "Of course it is. Look at you. You're wound up so tightly that you could explode any second. You just barely hold it all together. It's a constant battle. Exhausting, isn't it? The pain is an adversary that you can never seem to vanquish."

Grissom tried to keep his breathing even as he saw the muscles in Sara's body tighten. Her hands were clenching her arms painfully as she stared over her shoulder at the empty playground. She _was_ upset, fighting to retain her self-control. Everything Heather was implying.

Everything.

What had Lady Heather seen that he never noticed? Or didn't want to admit. Sara's drive was intense, but he'd never considered it as more than simple dedication to a job. Had he been wrong about her burnout; did it run deeper than that? What type of suffering had she endured, what could compel her to have such a strong reaction to cases?

Cases of domestic abuse and rape.

He gave himself a mental kick, pushing aside images of Sara living in the pain Heather was suggesting. That couldn't be right. Of course she would be upset. A brutal serial rapist may get away because the latest victim was unable to help. It was understandable that Sara would be troubled.

There wasn't more to it than that.

God, no, there couldn't be more to it.

"Sara, let's go," Grissom interjected, taking her by the arm, his anxiety increasing when she shrugged off his hand.

Lady Heather watched the exchange impassively, turning to face Sara head-on.

"Pain isn't the master, but it _is_ the teacher. And it'll never leave you until you learn its lesson," Heather counseled as she spun smartly, her robes swirling an about-face, following her like an army of dark specters.

Sara stood there for a long moment, taking slow, deep breaths as she processed the turn of events. She was private by nature; she didn't willingly talk about herself, so becoming the focus at a crime scene was unsettling. No one had ever said anything like that before.

No one had ever seen through her defenses before.

With a grunt, she picked up her kit and began examining the area around the bushes. Lady Heather was had made a lucky guess. There was no way she knew anything about her past.

Grissom, his thoughts still in a jumble, did a double take at Sara's sudden departure. He had to jog to catch up with her energetic strides.

"Sara …" he began diffidently, not willing to give voice to his concerns.

"There's still physical evidence," she stated shortly. "Even if Zoe won't testify, there's DNA from the other victims."

Sara dodged his restraining hand quickly, but not fast enough to prevent him from seeing the haunted look in her eyes. Grissom swallowed, running his hand through his hair, suspicions racing beyond his ability to follow.

Had Lady Heather been correct? She claimed to be able to read people, and she had understood him immediately. But she also didn't recognize that one of her employees had slipped into psychosis, becoming capable of killing a client's wife. Was she right now?

Sara was on edge; that much he could tell. Maybe he'd pushed her too soon. Greg still needed a mentor.

"Why don't you go back to the lab? I'll finish this up," he finally offered.

Pausing only for a second, she shook her head. "We'll get this done faster if we both work on it. My guess is he drove off in Zoe's car, since it isn't here. Maybe the cops can find him before he dumps it."

Grissom eased closer, careful not to make any sudden movements. Sara noted his action, giving him a pointed stare before returning to work. He observed her for a moment. Her actions were crisp and competent, but he was still discomforted.

"You don't have to prove anything, Sara."

"I'm not trying to," she answered tightly, closing her eyes for a second.

Grissom let out a long breath. "If this case is too … difficult for you…"

Sara twisted around, fixing him with an annoyed look. "What is wrong with you?"

"Me? Nothing. Can you tell me the same?"

"God, Grissom," she swore under her breath. "Don't tell me you actually fell for that? No one can get a handle on someone that quickly. She was 'protecting' her daughter."

He watched her intently. In his heart, he wanted to believe Sara with an urgency that staggered him. But he couldn't deny what the evidence suggested.

"Therapists can often reach a conclusion about their patients based on limited observations," he noted. "It's what makes them successful. Lady Heather uses the same skills."

"You actually think what she does is therapeutic? Damn, I heard of whipping someone into shape before, but I think she takes it too literally."

"Sara…"

She stood upright, planting her hands on her hips. "No! Grissom, don't you get it? What she does – it's a parlor trick. Every con artist and fake card reader in the world knows it. You keep tossing out vague statements until the person reacts, and you follow up on that."

"She managed to get a reaction out of you," he pointed out painfully, his eyes darkening with emotion.

Sara froze, trying unsuccessfully to prevent the shudder running through her body. The case was already dredging up memories she'd desperately wanted to escape, that she'd been trying to flee for years. Now, thanks to that woman, Grissom was pressing her for details.

This wasn't a conversation she wanted to have with him. Not under these circumstances, and she sure as hell didn't want it because of some mumbo-jumbo from Lady Heather.

The ease with which he accepted the dominatrix's unsubstantiated claims angered Sara. It lent credence to the rumors that they had been involved, if only briefly. She hadn't wanted to believe that – it was far too galling.

She was the first to admit that Grissom's concerns about having a relationship with an employee had some basis in fact, but he had left absolutely no line uncrossed by sleeping with a murder suspect. That he was willing to risk his job for someone like Lady Heather, but treated her like an unacceptable danger, pained Sara deeply.

It also made her question his apparent concern now. As much as she wanted have someone she could trust with her burdens, Grissom wasn't that man. He actively avoided any emotional connection with other people, especially her. She held no delusions about how fast he'd retreat if he knew the truth.

"This isn't about me," she finally stated, turning to look at Grissom imploringly.

Sara's response should have been reassuring. It was calmly delivered, but the ache in her eyes was impossible to miss. Grissom pursed his lips as he looked down at the ground; he harbored no doubts that he caused some of that pain.

"I think it would be best if you didn't work this case," Grissom replied, stepping back when she suddenly turned on him, marching over and leaning until she was mere inches from his face.

"You are not taking me off this case."

He tried to offer a friendly look. "If this is too…"

"What about you? I think you're the one with a _personal_ attachment to this case – or the family, I should say."

His jaw dropping, Grissom was unable to contain his shock. He never dreamt that Sara – that anyone – was aware of his past with Lady Heather. He thought his brief affair had been carried out discreetly, but that obviously wasn't the case. Grissom's hand reached up to rub over his beard as he broke off eye contact, trying to grasp the implications of Sara knowing about his indiscretion.

Her breath came in heavy gulps as she turned around, fighting down her embarrassment. Heather had her upset. This wasn't good. Grissom was already treating her like she was fragile; he was going to overreact.

And his continued silence only confirmed her suspicions about his relationship with the dominatrix.

"See, I told you it was a good parlor trick," Sara said.

He blinked, letting out an irritated grunt. "I never admitted to anything."

"Are you denying it?" she asked, glancing up at him. When he turned away, Sara gave a half-hearted shrug. "Guess I should thank you for not lying about it."

Grissom watched guiltily as she resumed her examination of the crime scene. The emotion surprised him; he and Sara had never been together. It wasn't like he had cheated on her. That fact hadn't prevented him from being upset by Sara's dating, Grissom admitted to himself. What had she said? Everyone has a jealousy gene.

He never considered it would bother her. At the time, he had been overwhelmed with his troubles. His hearing was failing. By all appearances, Sara had moved on and was happy with that paramedic.

Heather had been someone from whom he couldn't hide. The release of not having to put on the show had been indescribable. Even if he hadn't had her arrested, Grissom doubted their relationship would have lasted any length of time, but how did it look to Sara?

Obviously, it was a source of contention. When she turned back to stare at him, the depth of her sorrow was clear.

"We have a case to work," Sara said sadly. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Grissom nodded silently, dejectedly moving to examine the area where the rapist had fled, pausing to watch Sara. He did want to help her and with more than the case, but he wondered if she'd ever trust him enough to accept the offer.

* * *

The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time they returned to the lab. The drive back had been quiet. Grissom seemed unwilling to broach a topic, and that had suited Sara. She wasn't in the mood to talk.

Instead, she headed straight for an empty lab, beginning the painstaking task of examining each piece of evidence they had uncovered in the park. She was examining fibers found in the bushes when someone walked up behind her. Initially, she was ready for another confrontation but relaxed when he spoke.

"Sara," Greg mock-whined, "what are you doing to me? I'm stuck in the lab because DNA is swamped. I figured you'd help me escape, but no! You give me more samples! Marked 'rush' in huge-ass red letters, I might add."

"Greg, have you heard of the I-15 Rapist?" she asked coolly, moving the next sample under the microscope.

"Yeah, it's been in all of the dispatch … shit. This isn't?"

She looked up long enough to nod. "Looks that way. MO is the same."

"Is she going to be okay? I mean, what he did to those other women was sick."

"I hate to say she was lucky, but a kid walking a dog interrupted him. He assaulted her, but he didn't get a chance to disfigure her," Sara replied, a brief smirk forming. "And the dog took a bite out of his ass."

"That's one lineup I don't need to see. I hope someone bought Fido a steak dinner after that."

"Actually, I imagine any treat Pixy gets is going to be leather," she said dryly.

Greg gave her a puzzled look, hopping up on her work desk. "So, where's the SAE kit?"

Sara grabbed the next slide forcefully. "Thanks to Lady Heather, we didn't get one."

"Lady Heather?" Greg asked incredulously, mimicking a whip-cracking motion.

"The one and only."

He let out a long whistle. "So this guy attacked one of Heather's girls? How brainless can you get?"

"Greg, last time I checked, slavery was still illegal. They aren't her 'girls'," she said, squeezing her pen in an effort to keep her anger in check. "And it was her daughter, Zoe."

"Ouch! Even worse. God, can you imagine what she'd do to that rapist if she ever got her hands on him? Not that he doesn't deserve it, but man, what a way to go."

Sara closed her eyes as the images of what happened within Lady Heather's domain flashed through her mind. She didn't want to know what went on there. The willing infliction of pain was hard enough to comprehend, but the thought that someone was deriving pleasure from it made her sick to her stomach.

The only thing worse was charging people to take part in the humiliating spectacle.

"So, what do you have for me?" Greg asked softly, nudging her arm gently.

"There are scrapings from under her nails and a swab from the dog's mouth. Hopefully, we'll get some usable DNA from it."

"Okay," he said, drawing out the last syllable. "Uh, want some coffee? I can break out my secret stash."

Sara's lips twitched in wry amusement. Greg was outgoing, even boisterous, but definitely not a smooth operator. "I'd really like some DNA results," she answered, flashing him a friendly grin.

"Coffee would take less time," he sighed dramatically as he slid off of the desk. "I'll get started on it right away."

"Thanks, Greg."

"No problemo."

Later, when she heard footsteps behind her, Sara gave her head a brief shake. "DNA is still better than coffee."

Grissom stopped short, his mouth dropping in confusion. He couldn't figure out how coffee applied to their case. "What? Why?"

When she spun around quickly, he realized she hadn't been expecting him. "You're not Greg," she stated simply.

He shot her an amused glance over the top of his glasses. "A fact that I'm sure pleases him as much as it does me."

"What's up?" she asked evenly, turning back to the microscope.

He walked to the bench, resting his elbow on it as he leaned in close. Seeing her jaw clench, Grissom backed off slightly, giving her space, but still trying to be supportive. It was clear that she was still upset, but he wasn't sure how much of it was due to the case and how much was directed at him.

"Shift ended a few minutes ago," Grissom noted.

"Really?"

He tapped his finger against the tabletop, frowning as she purposely ignored his hint.

"That's very annoying," she sighed, pushing up and staring at him.

"Sorry," he said, intertwining his hands over his belly. "Sara, I don't want you putting undo stress on yourself."

"I'm not."

Grissom let out huff as she grabbed the next slide. She responded by hitting the edge of the work surface lightly with the palm of her hand. "I am almost done. I only have a couple more to do. It would take longer to retrieve all this from the evidence vault tonight and start over," Sara explained with forced patience.

He nodded, dropping his eyes to his hands. So far, his attempts at communicating were falling short. It wasn't an area that he excelled in, but it didn't mean he didn't care. Grissom had no idea if Heather's suspicions were correct or not, but he could tell Sara was in pain, and he didn't know how to help her.

Realizing only one person knew the answer to that quandary, Grissom stood up and rested his hand on the back of her chair. "How can I help?" he asked lowly.

"You can't," she said firmly, a facial muscle flinching before she took a calming breath. "I'm almost done. It won't go any faster with both of us working on it."

"That's not what I meant."

Sara's grasp on her pen became painful, but she forced her voice to remain calm as she resumed her duties. "I don't need any other help."

Grissom closed his eyes in defeat and pulled back. Sara either didn't trust him or didn't believe he was capable of doing anything to assist her. Until either of those criteria was met, he was at a loss.

Opening his eyes, he licked his lips nervously. "How about we go grab some breakfast when you're done here?"

That time Sara actually turned to stare at him in unabashed bewilderment. After what seemed an unbearably long time, she shook her head. "No. No, thanks. I have … uh, somewhere I need to go."

When she turned her back on him to finish the last of her slides, Grissom slowly trudged out of the room. Looking over his shoulder, he wondered how he would ever bridge the distance between them.

* * *

"Gil!" Catherine shouted down the hall.

Grissom stopped immediately and spun around, having to hurriedly reach out to protect himself from a collision with a young lab tech who was following too closely behind him. The young lady turned crimson and sputtered profuse apologies, fearing that her internship at the lab might have already been jeopardized by plowing into one of the supervisors.

The tech scurried away as Catherine approached, chuckling. "Is that your new way of meeting women? You gotta work on some smooth lines to go with it. I'd be willing to bet that she won't come within a hundred yards of you for weeks now."

"Who was that?" Grissom asked, his face pinched into a questioning scowl.

"How the hell should I know? She's one of the interns they rotate through here. That's all I know. Cute, isn't she?"

Grissom's face morphed into a punishing glare. "Did you need me for something?"

"No, not really. Just wanted to check on something," Catherine said as the two walked towards Grissom's office.

Once inside, Catherine shut the door and sat down, which Grissom never took to be a good sign.

"What is it, Catherine?" he asked, wanting what he expected to be an ordeal to start so that it could be finished all the sooner.

"I just wanted to see how you are," she said, smiling kindly.

"I'm fine. Is there some reason you ask?"

"This case. Lady Heather. Sara. Do I need to spell it out?"

"It would seem so," Grissom answered stiffly.

"Gil, I know it's got to be uncomfortable for you, seeing her again. People want old flames to stay in the past, not pop up over and over in their lives."

"She wasn't a flame," Grissom replied with frustration. Did everyone know of his indiscretion?

"Whatever. The point is, having her and Sara in the same solar system is dangerous enough. But having them involved in the same case is just begging for trouble."

"Sara's doing fine. She's a professional," Grissom said, knowing he wasn't answering Catherine's question.

"Yeah, well, actually it's you I'm worried about."

His face scrunched in confusion. "Me?"

"Did you ever see that movie about the guy who had to keep living the same day over and over until he got it right?"

"That's a little vague. Do you mean 'A Christmas Carol' by Dickens?"

"No, no, no! Though it's the same premise, I guess. Oh, hell, what's the name of that movie?" she asked rhetorically as she stared at the ceiling.

"What's your point, Catherine?"

She let her head fall back slowly, giving him a meaningful look. "Well, last time you were around Lady Heather, you made a bad choice."

"You are treading dangerously close to my personal life," Grissom warned.

"Oh, shut up, Gil. I've known you forever. Your personal life is hardly the mystery to me that you try to make it to everyone else at the lab."

"If you have a point, could you make it?" Grissom asked tiredly, knowing that there was no other way to deter Catherine once she was on a mission.

"My point is, if you made a decision the last time that didn't work out, don't make the same decision. Be careful not to repeat the same mistake again. I did that with Eddie, and all it did was set me back."

"I have no intentions of becoming involved with Lady Heather," Grissom stated firmly.

"Good. Good. I'm glad to hear it," Catherine said, rising.

Grissom was breathing a sigh of relief when she stopped at the door.

"But since you mentioned it, how is Sara doing?"

"I think that you were the one who initially mentioned it," Grissom countered.

"Fine. I mentioned it first. Now, are you going to answer me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, not really."

"What are the chances that you'll accept that it's none of your business and leave me in peace?" he asked with a hint of hopefulness.

"Hmm. I'd say the odds are somewhere in the neighborhood of one in a billion," she replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

Grissom peered peevishly over the top of his glasses as he reached for a file, pausing before opening it. Catherine could be annoying, but in many ways she was a better judge of human interactions than he was. She'd be able to put his doubts about Heather's comments to rest.

"Well, she did make an odd statement to Sara," he began, trying to sound unimpressed. "Heather told Sara that she couldn't find the answer to her pain through other people."

"Oh, I would have loved to have been there for that discussion!"

"You would?" Grissom began slowly, a cold fear settling in his stomach.

"Hell, yeah! That's a catfight you don't see everyday. You be careful," she warned.

"About?"

"Gil, either one of them pissed are more than you can handle. But both at the same time," she said with a cringe and a headshake, "it wouldn't be pretty. Don't do anything stupid."

Grissom turned his attention back to his file. Catherine had neither confirmed nor dismissed Heather's claim, effectively leaving him in the same state of uncertainty as before. He didn't want to push, fearful of starting rumors about Sara's state of mind.

She insisted she was fine. He had no reason to doubt her. No, that wasn't completely true; he had seen Sara's tenseness at the scene, but he had no proof it wasn't strictly related to her recovery.

"I'm not kidding," Catherine repeated.

"You seem to have been put on this Earth to be a thorn in my side," Grissom breathed out.

"I'd say more of a pain in your ass. But if you didn't have me around, this whole place could collapse around you, and you'd never notice it. I'm not just asking because I'm nosy. More than anything, I want to make sure that you're paying attention."

"I'm paying attention," he said firmly, nodding in punctuation.

"Really?" Catherine didn't try to hide the doubt in her voice.

"Really. Now go find someone else to torment. I need some time to sort through all of the case files for the I-15 Rapist. He's never going to stop if we can't get ahead of him."

Catherine nodded her assent and smiled at him as she let herself out.

"I _am_ paying attention," Grissom said aloud as he watched Sara moving through the hall, finally leaving for the day.

_TBC_


	3. Vengeance Is Mine

**Tortured Reasoning   
********Authors: **Mossley and Burked   
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.   
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes are all mine.   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

* * *

**Chapter 3 –Vengeance is Mine**

Sara gripped the steering wheel, flexing her fingers as she stared at the gothic structure before her. This promised to be an uncomfortable visit. Taking a last swig of her tea, she grimaced at the coldness. She'd been sitting out here longer than she realized.

Getting out of her car, she ran her eyes around the property. Nothing about the outside of the mansion gave any hint as to what happened on the inside. With a repressed snicker, Sara mentally conceded that was the case with most crimes they investigated. The most normal looking locales held the darkest of secrets.

The same was true of people, too.

Sara quickly walked to the front door, keeping her gaze focused on the wood. From what she knew of Lady Heather's domain, all the clients came, literally and figuratively, at night. She wasn't taking any chances, though, and avoided looking into any of the upper windows.

Before ringing the doorbell, Sara closed her eyes and took a cleansing breath. No one was being hurt now. What went on inside at night wasn't her concern; she was here to help Zoe.

When the door opened, she quickly covered her surprise that the dominatrix was still dressed in leather; apparently it was more than a costume she wore for her customers. If Lady Heather noticed, she made no comment.

"Ms. Sidle," she said coolly. "A social visit, I hope."

"Good morning, Heather. May I speak to Zoe?"

"No," she answered, but stepping back to let Sara enter. "Zoe is still in bed. As you can imagine, she had trouble sleeping last night."

Sara nodded as she cautiously surveyed the building's interior. She could easily believe a rape victim would be uncomfortable inside the domain.

"My quarters are upstairs, open to all," Heather said evenly, directing Sara towards her office. "But Zoe lives in the guest house. She was upset by what happened to her, Ms. Sidle, not by what goes on here."

"It was a traumatic event," Sara offered.

"One that Zoe would prefer not to dwell on. If that is what my daughter needs, then that is what she'll have. It's unfortunate if that hinders your investigation, but I will not allow my daughter to be harmed further," Heather warned darkly.

"I can understand that," Sara admitted.

"And yet here you are."

"I was hoping Zoe would be willing to talk to a forensic artist."

"This is a serial rapist, correct? What makes you think Zoe can tell you anything the other victims couldn't?"

Sara looked her imploringly. "Heather, she was the only victim who was able to talk afterwards. The bastard beat the other women, savagely, then took his knife to them. The previous woman was permanently blinded in one eye. Another had to have her spleen removed. They all needed plastic surgery. As terrible as this was for Zoe, she's the only one that has a clear memory of what happened."

"I can ask her when she wakes up, Ms. Sidle," Lady Heather said, her voice lacking the edge it had earlier.

"Thank you," Sara replied, following her into the office.

The dominatrix studied her for a moment before walking behind her desk. "I don't get a lot of visitors who aren't clients. But those visitors I do get generally fall into two categories: those who are curious, maybe even titillated by what they see, and those who can barely hide their revulsion."

"Same in my line of work," Sara said a bit nervously, hoping she would be able to maintain a veneer of objectivity.

"I imagine there are a lot of people who think you must be some sort of ghoul, since you have chosen to work around death and violence."

"I suppose so."

Heather smiled serenely. "Are you? A ghoul, I mean."

"I don't think so," Sara said with a shrug. "It's just the nature of my job."

"Yes, but why this job? Why not be a cop, if you like law enforcement? Or a research scientist, if that's your interest?" she asked as she took a seat behind her desk, directing Sara to a leather upholstered antique chair.

"I like how forensic science brings the two together. I can use my interest in science for the good of society."

"Ah, so it's society you're seeking justice for," Lady Heather said with a knowing smile.

Sara nodded as her eyes scanned the room, taking in all the tools of Heather's trade that were hung prominently around the office.

"I could make the same case," Lady Heather added confidently.

Sara lifted an eyebrow, the doubt evident on her face.

"I provide a constructive outlet for meeting the more primal needs of a segment of society. Needs will be met, Ms. Sidle. One either provides for that, or it will happen on its own, and not always at the time or in the way that one had hoped."

"Are you sure you're not glorifying violence? Especially violence against women?"

Lady Heather laughed, underscoring it by leaning back in her chair and noisily propping her booted feet on the desk. She picked up a riding crop that had been on the desk, and slapped it a few times along the leather bootlegs, eliciting loud pops.

"Ms. Sidle, just because the majority of my employees are female, don't jump to the conclusion that they are all submissives who allow strangers to beat them mercilessly. As a matter of fact, most of my female staff is dominant, and all but one of my male staff are submissive. And most of what happens here is symbolic."

"So, let me see if I understand you. You're telling me that normal, every-day men pay hundreds of dollars to be symbolically tormented by a woman."

"Essentially that's correct," Heather agreed, surprising Sara. "Or women pay to do the same to a handsome, young man. Sometimes even man-to-man or woman-to-woman. There are a lot of different kinds of people out there, Ms. Sidle, with a lot of different kinds of needs."

"So it would seem," she admitted uncomfortably.

"Is it that you don't like what I do, or is it that you don't like me personally?" Heather asked without affect.

Sara jerked her head away from a collection of masks to stare at the dominatrix. "Excuse me?"

"I believe that you heard me. And you seem intelligent enough to have understood the question."

"I try not to judge people or what they do ... as long as it's legal," Sara answered somewhat defensively.

Heather smirked, setting her crop on the desk and picking up a set of handcuffs. "You try. Yes, it's evident that you're trying. But it's hard for you, isn't it?"

"Nobody's perfect, Heather. You have ideals that you try to live up to. Doesn't mean you're always going to be successful."

"You didn't get the pleasure of meeting my daughter under better circumstances. You might have liked her."

"I rarely get to meet people in better circumstances," Sara answered, her mind spinning a little from the sudden change in the conversation's direction.

"She has lots of friends, a good job, does well in school. She goes to Harvard," Lady Heather related with obvious pride.

"I went to Harvard."

"You're having a hard time wrapping your head around it, aren't you? How can an S&M whore have a normal, well-adjusted child?"

Sara sputtered, "I never said ... I never called you ...."

Lady Heather waved her protestations off dismissively.

"First of all, I'm not a prostitute. Our business isn't about sex, though out in society sex is one of the few areas where people will allow for their expression of dominance or submission."

"I didn't ..."

"Regardless of what you think of me or my chosen profession, I managed to raise a happy, well-adjusted, successful, strong young woman. One who thinks enough of me to travel all the way across the continent to be with me at Thanksgiving."

"Yes, I can see that," Sara managed to choke out.

"Why are you working on a holiday? Don't you have a family you'd rather be with?" Heather asked pointedly.

"I'm from California," Sara answered.

"That's not so far away. Certainly not as far away as Massachusetts. You could have easily spent a day or two with them."

Sara silently jeered. There would have been nothing easy about it.

"Crime doesn't stop to allow us all to have time with our families. There are people at work with kids, and they have priority."

"Ah, I see. So Mr. Grissom would not have allowed you to take a day or two off to see your family?"

"I didn't ask," Sara admitted.

"I see. I think you have no desire to see your family."

Her head snapped around, but Sara tried to keep her face impassive. From Heather's sage nod, she doubted she was successful.

"Perhaps I'm not such a freak after all. At least my daughter and I have a healthy relationship."

Sara mentally berated herself for falling for Lady Heather's bait. She wasn't here to talk about herself, but now she was on the defensive. It was irritating; regardless of what she thought about Heather or her profession, she had said nothing about it. She didn't have to defend her ideas.

"Good for you," she said firmly. "My relationship with my family is private, and I'm not going to discuss it with you or anybody else."

Heather studied Sara appraisingly for a long moment before leaning back in her chair, her fingers forming a steeple. "You're a very uptight person, Ms. Sidle. You should do something about that before it manifests in some unhealthy way. Like I said, needs will be met, whether we want them to or not."

Sara huffed a scoffing laugh. "So you think everything would be okay if I just pick up one of these toys of yours and beat the living shit out of somebody?"

"Maybe not everything, but you'd be surprised what a sense of release you'd have. It would get out some of that pent-up aggression you seem to just barely have control over."

"No, thanks. I swore a long time ago that I'd never knowingly hurt anyone."

"Spoken like someone who's been at the business end of pain."

She drew a deep breath, mentally counting to ten before returning Heather's stare. "This isn't about me."

"Really? I disagree. Did your vow include not harming yourself?"

Sara shifted on the chair but didn't answer.

"Trust me," the dominatrix said with a humorless smile, "physical pain fades eventually, or it can be dulled by medication if necessary. Emotional pain can linger if you don't find a way to deal with it."

It took a mental effort, but Sara resisted the desire to turn away. She wouldn't give Lady Heather the pleasure of admitting how close her statements were hitting to home.

"You don't know anything about me."

"More than you realize, Ms. Sidle, but I don't know everything," Heather conceded. "What bothers you more: that you were unable to stop what happened to you, or that you did nothing to stop it? And how does it relate to your family?"

Sara stood up quickly. "Here's my card. When your daughter is sufficiently rested, would you ask her to give me a call?"

"Denial or deflection?" Lady Heather prodded, standing as she spoke.

"It's been ... interesting," Sara said, leaving without offering her hand.

"Yes, it has," Lady Heather called out, shaking her head sadly. The signs of repressed anger in the younger woman storming off were so evident – to someone who understood the pain.

* * *

The next shift found a pensive Grissom standing at the doorway to the Layout Room. His hand rubbed his beard absentmindedly as he looked at Sara. One at a time, she hung the grisly photos from the previous victims of the I-15 Rapist. Unaware that she was being watched, Sara made no attempt to hide her disgust. He winced each time she reacted.

Part of him wanted to pull her from the case immediately, before it could affect her more. Grissom feared she would draw even farther away from him if he did so, and that was not an acceptable option.

All day, he had tossed fitfully in bed as sleep eluded him. Heather's comments about Sara had troubled him, and Grissom had been unable to shake the feeling. Heather was observant, not omnipotent. Her talents were geared to discerning her clients' needs. She tried to deflect attention away from Zoe, and she chose Sara as her target.

But images of her crying in his office over the injustice of a woman raped and left brain dead, of being driven to rage by the actions of an abusive husband, of being infuriated by the degradations of the Strip Strangler, of having to leave the scene of a young rape victim's murder came unbidden.

The sun was setting when realization finally hit Grissom: he simply didn't want to believe anything had happened to Sara.

Once his mind had accepted that something had occurred, it insisted on examining the possible scenarios. Since she reacted to domestic violence cases, his first inclination was she'd watched her mother suffer. And abusers often turned on children. It was the thought of Sara being molested as a child that drove him to his bathroom, where his stomach emptied violently.

Resting his head on the cool porcelain, Grissom fought down the bile, and resisted the urge to dismiss his concerns. This was something that he couldn't pretend didn't happen. Somehow, he had to reach Sara, for her sake more than his own peace of mind.

"Hey," he said softly, moving to stand beside her.

"Hey."

Grissom ran his eyes over her discreetly. Her current task was unpleasant for her, and there was a tightness around her eyes, but she was more relaxed than earlier. "You're in early."

"So are you," Sara noted without pausing in her work. "Probably the same reason I am. If the rapist follows his pattern, he'll attack another woman soon."

"If he sticks to his pattern now."

"How is he going to react after being interrupted last night?" she asked, taking a marker and jotting down information.

Grissom shrugged. "He'll be frustrated by his failure to complete his ritual. The dog bite will be an added insult. If he's smart, he'll lay low for a while, or leave Vegas altogether."

"You think that's what he'll do?"

"No," he said after a moment's thought. "He picks his victims based on opportunity. He always grabs the woman from a dark parking lot and drives away in her car to a nearby isolated area. He makes no attempt to hide evidence. There's no sophistication to his attacks."

"So he'll take his frustration out on the next woman," she said remorsefully.

"Or on the first stranger who gets in his way. It's likely the rapist has trouble controlling his anger."

"He rapes three or four women in each city before picking another location," Sara said, looking over her shoulder. She did a quick double take. "You don't look well."

"I had trouble sleeping," he understated.

Sara turned slowly, giving him a thoughtful look. She knew this had to be uncomfortable for him. Grissom was so evasive emotionally, but he'd been unable to hide the fact that he was concerned about her ability to handle the case. It was bad enough before Heather's announcement, but since then it had gotten more intense.

She felt guilty that she let Heather rattle her at the scene. If she had stayed calm, Grissom wouldn't be vexed now. It took an effort, but she was forcing down her own reactions, not giving him any ammunition to feed his anxiety. There was no reason for him to worry unnecessarily.

Besides, it wasn't like he could do anything to help.

And then there was the dominatrix. After going home, Sara had time to cool off. The pain that Grissom was willing to risk his career over Heather was still there, but she had noticed the strain between them at the scene. Whatever had happened was definitely over, and she gathered it didn't end on a good note.

"You okay?" she asked kindly.

"I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He didn't look fine. "Go home. Get some rest. I'll take care of this. If anything comes in, I'll page you."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sara," he said, fixing her with a penetrating stare.

"Grissom," she said slowly, resuming her note taking. "It was one mistake. I'm not trying to minimize how stupid it was, 'cause God knows it was. But it was one beer too many, and we didn't have anything to eat."

"We? Someone let you drive drunk? Who was it?" he demanded, suddenly furious that someone, probably from the lab, had let Sara endanger her life.

"It doesn't matter. I'm an adult. It was my mistake. But you don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to fall apart."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to calm down. Anger wouldn't accomplish anything at this point. "I'm glad to hear that, but we both know that's not what I'm talking about."

Sara set the marker down and wrapped her arms around herself. After a beat, she turned to face him. "How old were you?" she asked seriously.

"How old was I when what?" he repeated in confusion.

"When you became a drug addict?"

"I have never been an addict, drug or otherwise," Grissom said with a hint of annoyance.

"Really? 'Cause pushers targeting kids is one of the things that sets you off," Sara said pointedly. "It bothers you even though you weren't a victim."

Grissom let out a slow breath. She had a valid point; a crime could be disturbing regardless if the CSI had personally experienced it. His head tilted as he observed her closely. It would be nice to believe her, but he felt she was trying to reassure him.

"So, you're telling me that nothing bad ever happened to you?" he asked directly.

"No," she corrected, walking to the light table to study a file. "But who hasn't had something bad happen? It's part of life."

"Enough that it affects you later?"

"We're all shaped by our experiences," she answered, darting her eyes to the hand that rested on her shoulder.

Grissom gently pivoted her body so she was facing him. "There's a difference between being shaped and being haunted."

"I thought being the ghost was your gig," Sara said with a forced smile, waiting for him to break off. When he held her gaze, she dropped her head. His concern should have been touching, but the fact it was only initiated because of the dominatrix hurt.

"I'm just trying to help," he said, his other hand coming to rest on her opposite shoulder.

"Grissom," she exhaled, holding up her hands, unable to cope with his sudden openness. "Okay. I admit things weren't always great when I was kid. But that was then. This is now."

"But you are reacting to this case."

"It's a terrible crime. What that bastard does to his victims is sick. Yeah, it bothers me."

"Can you look me in the eye and say this isn't personal?" he asked.

Sara lifted her head and looked him directly in they eye. "Can you tell me why you believe Heather over me?"

Grissom chewed his lip thoughtfully. Heather had never lied to him, but he knew that wasn't a smart answer; it implied Sara had lied to him. At most, she avoided answering his questions directly. Considering the personal nature of them, he could understand her unwillingness to talk about it.

"She's observant," he finally responded.

"So are you. You've known me for years. How come you never thought about asking me this until she mentioned it?" she asked, a muscle in her jaw clenching at the harshness that had crept into her voice.

"I never wanted to believe you'd been hurt."

When she didn't answer, Grissom quickly scanned the open doorway. Taking a deep breath, he stepped closer. Luckily, a number of the lab staff had taken vacation for the holiday, but it was still uncomfortable.

"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, his tender statement ending in a soft curse when she pulled away after her pager went off. His followed a few seconds later.

"From Brass," she said, clearing her throat.

"Same here," he sighed. With a shrug, he escorted her to the parking lot, hoping they wouldn't find another victim of the I-15 rapist.

* * *

Pulling into the seedy motel's parking lot, Grissom frowned before turning to Sara. Her expression held the same mix of apprehension and curiosity.

"God, do you think it's another victim?" she asked softly, watching as David pulled a gurney from the coroner's van. "He nearly killed his other women. It wouldn't take much to cross that line."

Grissom let out a huff, shaking his head. That wasn't a good sign. If the rapist had graduated to murder, it was unlikely that he would stop. Or it could be unrelated. The lab was shorthanded, but it seemed unlikely Brass would have paged them specifically when he knew they were concentrating on the I-15 Rapist. The mayor wanted him caught before any other woman was attacked.

"I don't know. A motel? All his other attacks were in isolated areas," Grissom posited as they retrieved their kits.

"He could have changed his MO because of the dog attack. Pick somewhere less open."

"It's possible," he acknowledged. If true, the change in behavior could complicate their investigation.

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not. It's highly unusual for a serial rapist to attack again so quickly. They like to 'savor' their actions," Grissom said, turning his attention back to his partner.

"I'll be okay," Sara told him quietly.

He gave her a small smile, standing nearby as they crossed the parking lot. "Let me know if I can help."

She nodded, but didn't answer.

Brass waved them over to the steps heading to the second-story of the building. "You two handled a rape last night? Zoe Grey?"

"Yeah," Sara answered.

"Patrol found her car in an alley two blocks away. Porsches tend to stand out in this neighborhood," the detective said, leading them upstairs. He pointed out a muscle-bound man dressed in a greasy t-shirt rocking uneasily on his heels. "That's the manager. He found the body. After I saw it, I figured I should call you two in."

Sara and Grissom exchanged looks, and he left his hand on her elbow after escorting her around a crowd of guests. Sara glanced down at it, but made no move to walk away.

Brass paused before they reached the door, an unreadable expression on his face. "This Zoe was Lady Heather's daughter, right?"

"Yes," Grissom answered evenly.

"Figures."

"Why?" Sara asked.

"You'll see. This is bad," he warned, leading them into the room.

The buzz of flies and the acrid smell of blood reached them before they walked into the room. Coupled with the caveat from Brass, they had an idea what to expect before entering.

"Oh, my God," Sara whispered hoarsely.

Streaks of blood covered the walls and ceiling, emanating from the nude body tied to the bed. As she moved closer, Sara noted the gagged form was male and massive amounts of flesh had been flayed from his body.

Brass let out a long sigh. "I'd say he learned the hard way not to piss Lady Heather off."

_TBC_


	4. The Evidence Of Things Not Seen

**Tortured Reasoning   
********Authors: **Mossley and Burked   
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.   
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes aren't her fault.  
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

* * *

**Chapter 4 – The Evidence Of Things Not Seen**

With an effort, Sara snapped her eyes away from the flayed corpse. She scanned the area around her feet, looking for a place devoid of gore where she could safely set her kit down. While slowly retrieving her equipment, she used the time to bring her breathing back under control.

After a moment, Sara opened her eyes and swung her flashlight over the walls and ceiling of the motel room. Streaks of blood and bits of flesh were strewn around the area in a pattern consistent with the back swing of a whip.

With a wince, she turned her attention back to the body. The damage was extensive. The killer had been driven by some intense emotion. Perhaps revenge. Could Heather have been involved? Brass was certainly working on that assumption – among others.

"What makes you certain this was the I-15 Rapist?" Grissom asked the question before she could.

"Look on the table," Brass directed. "Keys to a Porsche. In this neighborhood, I'm betting they go to Zoe's. The same type of knife that was used in the attacks and a bandana. Fits the M.O."

Sara looked up as Brass moved to her side.

"And David said he's got a dog bite on his ass," he said, winking at her. "The dead guy's ass. Not David's."

She flashed him a grateful smile. His avuncular concern was touching, and unlike Grissom's attentions, there was no question that it was genuinely heartfelt and not fleeting. "Good for David. To quote Greg, that's something I wouldn't want to see."

"Greg's quotable now?" Brass said in mock-horror, holding his hands to his chest. "When did that happen? Oh, man, something is not right in the world."

Across the room, Grissom observed the exchange thoughtfully. While they commonly used humor as a way to deal with the job, he found himself wondering if Brass was deliberately trying to distract Sara from the savagery around them.

Moving to the bedside table, he frowned. The items Brass described were there, very neatly arranged. His eyes swept across the room. Clothing stuck out of drawers and carryout containers littered nearly all the flat surfaces in the room. This man wasn't neat.

"These are arranged. Probably symbolic," Grissom announced.

Sara walked beside him, swinging her flashlight over the tabletop. "Someone wanted us to know why this guy was killed," she agreed.

"Oh, I think we all know why he was killed. And the how, when and where. Give you three guesses on who," Brass intoned dryly.

"What makes you so sure Heather was involved?" Grissom asked irritably.

Sara cocked her head to get a better view. She knew part of his short temper was due to her. She'd tried to put Grissom at ease earlier, but she doubted how effective she'd been. The conversation had been unrehearsed. She never expected him to be so direct or to refuse to back down.

"Heather's daughter was attacked. That's motive. And this guy was killed sadistically. She's a sadist," she pointed out, giving him an almost-apologetic shrug.

"And it's not like Vegas has a Whips-R-Us outlet," Brass added.

Grissom looked between them with a frown. He didn't correct Sara's assessment of Heather's inclinations; it was hair-splitting and he suspected coming to Heather's defense wouldn't help him with his dealings with Sara. But they were jumping to a conclusion.

"You can order whips online, and there are a number of shops in town that carry them," he told them.

"I won't ask how you know that," the detective said.

Grissom gave him an impatient stare over the top of his glasses as he knelt down to examine the table in closer detail. "I know all kinds of things. And it shows that Lady Heather isn't the only person in Vegas with access to whips."

"And has motive to kill the man that probably raped her daughter?" Sara asked.

"Hey, it's not rocket science. Zoe wouldn't go through the courts. Heather took matters into her own hands," Brass said.

"Why?" Grissom asked without rancor. "It was Zoe who didn't want to cooperate. She supported her daughter's decision."

"Come on. What choice did Zoe have?" Brass countered. "Think about what Heather does for a living."

"Most rapes go unreported because the victims don't think they'll be believed. Living with the attack is hard enough without having to relive it on the stand." Sara said quietly, straightening when Grissom turned to gaze at her intently.

"Defense attorneys look for ways to shift the blame to the victim," the police captain added. "They use anything questionable in the woman's past. Growing up in a sex club would give them all kinds of ammunition to use against Zoe."

"And there are people out there that would believe it. They don't get that rape isn't about sex; it's about violence. I don't care how strong you are; that would be a bitch to go through. Zoe's smart; she'd know what she'd face at the trial."

"So Heather carried out her own sentence," Brass concluded.

Grissom nodded. They both raised valid points. Heather had the means and the motive to carry out this attack. At the very least, they had to consider her a suspect.

"I'll get a warrant," Brass sighed as he headed for the door. "I wonder if we can get a revolving door account for the domain."

* * *

Without conscious forethought, Grissom took Sara's elbow in hand as he pushed open the morgue doors. At the far table, they could see the medical examiner with something small in his fingers. He held it appraisingly in front of him, then leaned over the body, scanning intently. With a self-satisfied smirk, he placed the object on the corpse's back.

He stood and put his hand into a small bucket, pulling out what the two CSIs finally recognized as a strip of flesh. Again, he studied the fragment before placing it on the body.

"Albert," Grissom said in greeting.

"I always did enjoy jigsaw puzzles, but I never did like the ones that were all one color," he said, a scowl of frustration on his face as he searched for a likely origin for the small piece of flesh he was holding.

Grissom peeked inside the bucket to find a mass of skin soaking in saline solution to keep the pieces hydrated.

"David said that it took hours for him to document and collect all of those," Dr. Albert Robbins said, nodding toward the bucket.

"They were scattered all over the room," Grissom acknowledged.

"Walls. Floor. Ceiling. Everywhere," Sara added, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off a shudder. With the blood cleaned off, the marks on the body stood out in sharper contrast, highlighting the viciousness of his execution. The I-15 Rapist was a beast, but she couldn't condone anyone taking him down like a rabid animal.

"I'm trying to reconstruct the skin on the back so that we can count the lacerations, but I don't hold out much hope of getting a definitive number."

"With this many, a definitive number probably won't matter in court," Sara said.

"I can tell you that it was significantly more than the traditional forty lashes," Robbins said. "Many of them delivered postmortem. He no doubt lost consciousness after the first few, so it's possible that the perpetrator didn't realize the victim was dead."

"What about the tox screen?" she asked.

"Still pending, but there's no obvious signs that he was drugged or hit over the head to subdue him, if that's what you're wondering," Robbins said, carefully placing the strip of skin on the back before picking up the nearest wrist. "The depth of the ligature marks show he was trying to get free, at least at first."

"He was aware of what was happening, or going to happen, to him," Grissom noted.

"Makes sense. What's the point of torturing someone if they won't feel it?" Sara asked softly, taking a small step to the side when she realized Grissom's attention had once again shifted to her.

"Hmm," Robbins said distractedly, flipping a fragment of skin around as he tried to line it to a wound. "David sent the ten-card to Jacqui, but the bite on your John Doe here matches the mold taken from the dog that bit the rapist. Unless the dog likes to chew on backsides, I'd say this is your guy. Gil, hand me another piece."

"I don't suppose there's any good way of telling exactly what sort of weapon did this," Grissom posited as he retrieved another strip of flesh.

"I'd say a single-tailed whip or something like it," Robbins answered. "While most of the lacerations are the same general orientation, that's to be expected if the attacker stood in one spot during the whole attack. But they are overlapping, crisscrossing in several places, several different depths – which tells me that it wasn't likely something like a cat o' nine tails, which would form more of a parallel, though slightly fanned, pattern of lacerations all the same depth."

"Something like a bullwhip?" Sara asked, naming the only other whip name she'd heard other than the infamous cat Robbins had mentioned.

"Similar, though shorter, I'd imagine. Bullwhips take a lot of open space to use effectively."

"The motel room was sixteen-by-twelve," Sara recounted.

"Bullwhips are not generally weighted, and are effective only if you have the room to stand away from the target and snap them on the skin. They tend to leave shorter lacerations. They're designed to make noise and a small bite. They aren't designed for flogging, probably because they don't inflict enough damage and they take a lot of skill to use."

"Albert, should I be concerned that you know this much about the subject?" Grissom asked with a wry grin.

"A few years back a ranch hand landed on my table that had been hit a few times with a bullwhip."

"That killed him?" Sara asked incredulously.

"No. A .30-.30 shot to the head killed him. The disagreement over the ownership of a saddle escalated pretty quickly."

"What century do we live in?" Sara murmured.

"So we're looking for something shorter than a bullwhip, but probably not a flogger," Grissom synopsized.

"Correct. But I'm far from an expert on what your choices are from there. My report will simply state that he died from exsanguination from multiple lacerations and shock. Manner of death is homicide. Beyond that, it's up to you."

"Thanks, Doc," Sara said on the way out of the morgue.

She headed for the stairwell quickly, hoping to avoid another confrontation with Grissom. Her ability to mute her reactions to cases was faltering. That was beginning to frighten her; at this rate, it was only a matter of time before she totally lost it. Something had to be done, but she had no idea what.

Grissom lengthened his stride to keep up with her, taking the opportunity to observe her closely. What he saw didn't put his mind at ease. There was a tightness to her posture, and he could tell she was avoiding his gaze.

"Did Brass get the warrant yet? I can work on the samples taken from the motel room. That's going to take…"

"Sara," he interrupted gently, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I'm not blind."

"None so blind as those who won't see," she muttered under her breath before looking back over her shoulder. "You handling the warrant?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes, I will. Stop changing the subject."

"I'm not. I'm trying to get back to work. We went from having a psycho rapist to a psycho murderer. Not much of an improvement," she snorted, picking up her pace.

"I think there's more to it than that."

Sara bit back an angry retort. Snapping at him would only make things worse. His curiosity wasn't helping; in fact, it was adding to her pain. It was taking all her control to keep her body from shaking. She needed to get away from him, but he wasn't backing off.

"You don't want to get involved," Sara stated forcefully when he moved to her side.

He stopped her forward progress by taking her arm in his hand. When she didn't turn to face him, he moved to stand in front of her, putting on his best friendly expression. "I think that's for me to decide."

"God, Grissom," she sighed, dropping her head to stare at her boots. After a beat, she looked up and shook her head at him disbelievingly. "That wasn't a warning. It was a statement of fact."

"I don't follow you."

"It's simple," Sara said, her eyes showing the depth of her remorse. "You didn't want to get involved with me. On a personal level. Fine. You aren't involved. So my personal life is off-limits to you."

Grissom's hand fell slowly as the meaning of her words sank in. Something was wrong, even if Sara tried to deny it, and that was making him wary. But had he pushed her so far away she wouldn't accept his assistance?

"I want to help," he tried, his voice softening as he stepped closer.

She gave him a determined stare. "It doesn't work that way."

"Then tell me what does."

"You really don't get it, do you? It's a package deal, Grissom. All or nothing. You can't be 'concerned'," Sara said, making quote marks with her fingers, "and expect me to open up only when it's convenient for you."

"Tell me what I can do…"

"No," she said, pulling out of his grip and mentally counting to ten to calm down. When he followed her, she changed tactics. Turning around, she stood with her hands on her hips, facing him directly. "This act of yours, being concerned for a little bit of time? It's not cute."

"It's not an act," Grissom said defensively.

"Whatever. It still hurts. You push me away, but then you'll offer me enough to trust you again. Then you back off. I'm tired of it. I'm not playing anymore. I don't care if your ex-lover has you feeling guilty."

Grissom removed his glasses, letting out a long huff. He recognized Sara's anger was probably due to the stress of the case, and he'd hurt their friendship more deeply than he realized. That was a painful insight; it hadn't been a conscious attempt to drive her off, but the end result was the same.

And his brief relationship with Heather apparently was a sore spot. He watched as she stood staring irritably at him. This wasn't like Sara. She was direct but never cruel.

"This case is bothering you. I don't want you to risk your career by working something you aren't ready to handle."

"Help my career? You?" she asked incredulously. "You mean like putting a requirement to see a PEAP counselor in my record? That happened on my free time. It had nothing to do with work, Grissom, but now it does. It's going to be on my record forever. Hell, even Ecklie brought it up."

"I didn't know," he said softly.

"Why didn't you ask me what was going on?" she asked, the pain in her voice coming through strongly.

Grissom leaned back against the wall, his hand rubbing his temple wearily. "That last case got to you. Everyone could see it. I thought you were going through burnout."

"It wasn't. You never once asked me what happened. Not on the ride back to my place. Not later. You didn't care until Heather brought it up to distract us from Zoe. I think I have reason doubt that you really care what's going on."

"I'm trying now. You're not exactly being cooperative," Grissom said, closing his eyes at the sharp edge that made his comment more biting than he intended.

"Like I said, your choice. This is what you wanted."

"No, Sara, it's not," he insisted.

"Doesn't make any difference. My personal life is that – personal," she said, turning around abruptly. "I have work to do. What's going on with me has nothing to do with you or with work."

"So, you're finally admitting that something is wrong?" he called out, noting that Sara momentarily froze, but never answered.

* * *

Outwardly, Grissom was calm as they approached the door, but inside he was torn. Besides his ongoing clash with Sara, there was this case. He didn't want to investigate Heather again, but like the last time, he was only following the evidence. That didn't make the task any less unpleasant. Considering her a murder suspect had cost him her respect; how would she react to being accused of being a sadistic torturer?

When the dominatrix opened the door, her eyes swept over Brass before locking on Grissom's with a coldness that made it easier to believe she could have killed the rapist.

"Lady Heather. We've got to quit meeting like this. People will say we're in love," Brass said with an insincere smile.

Not responding, Heather fixed her eyes on him with a look that somehow balanced ferocious intensity and complete ennui.

"Seems like I come here every year, investigating a murder."

Heather shook her head in mock-disappointment. "That's hyperbole, Captain. It's been two years since you've been to my humble home," she quipped.

"Yeah, but the last one was a two-fer, so it covered two years."

Heather's gaze was unwavering as she stared him down.

After a moment's pause, Brass continued, "I think you've been a bad, bad girl." He held up a large manila envelope as though it held the story of her life.

"You don't know the half of it," Lady Heather scoffed, stepping aside so that they could enter into the foyer.

"Oh, I think I do," Brass said, a malicious grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"I doubt it. But for a thousand dollars, I could show you just how bad I can be," she said, her voice as deep and inviting as the first kisses of foreplay.

"Alas, they don't pay me enough for that," Brass said, shrugging.

"That's a pity," Heather said dismissively, turning to fix her glare on Grissom. "You seem intent to find me guilty of some crime, Mr. Grissom. Why is that?"

"Serious crimes seem to keep happening around you. Why is that?" he countered.

"I was cleared of any involvement in the crimes for which you deemed me a suspect," she answered, a hint of bitterness playing under the words.

"And I hope you're cleared of this one, too," he said honestly.

They stood there, neither speaking and neither willing to end the standoff first.

"Can we go somewhere to talk?" Brass finally asked, breaking the tension between the two.

"We can use my office," she exhaled, leading the way.

Heather sat behind her desk, offering chairs to the two men. Grissom demurred, picking up his inspection of her office that began years ago. As Brass opened the envelope and spread the photos out in front of her, Grissom seemed preoccupied with each of the tools of her trade, turning them over in his hands, making mental pictures before setting them back in place.

"Are you showing these to me for my professional opinion?" Lady Heather asked, picking up each photo, examining it closely before returning it to the desk.

"Sure. Why not? Tell me what you see in them," Brass said, knowing that an appeal to the vanity of some perpetrators would often yield better results than a frontal assault.

Lady Heather shook her head in near disgust.

"Amateurish. No control whatsoever. Whoever did this has the tools, but doesn't know a damn thing about how to properly use them."

"Educate me," Brass said, leaning forward on the desk.

"Look at the whip marks on the back. There are dozens of them, all inflicted at about the same time. No one could survive that; the blood loss would be too great."

"Speaking from experience?"

"From historical knowledge. Would you rather Mr. Grissom explain it to you?"

Brass turned to his colleague with a curious expression.

"To ensure the greatest suffering, punishments by whipping were traditionally spread out over time. It doesn't take long before a person passes out from pain. And it doesn't take much longer to kill them."

"Maybe the person who whipped him didn't want him to survive," Brass countered, smiling humorlessly at Heather.

"Then shoot him and be done with it," she snapped, tossing the photo back at him.

"Do you know who that man is?" Grissom asked, turning toward her, holding a cat o' nine tails in his hand that had been hanging on the wall.

"Should I?" she asked. "I typically remember our clients, and I don't recognize him."

"He's not a client. We believe he's the man who attacked Zoe."

Heather's only reaction was an indifferent shrug. "Hmm. Well, since I didn't witness the attack, I could hardly have recognized him. But if it's the rapist, he died too quickly. He should live as long as his victims do, suffering every minute like some of them will."

"You wanna know what I think? I think that you put the word out that you wanted to find this guy. I think that someone gave him up, and that you or one of your followers whipped him to death. For revenge." Brass added the last two words with an almost melodramatic flair.

"Revenge? That's not revenge," Lady Heather hissed.

"He died."

"Which is my point."

"Not much avenging in letting the bastard live."

She let out a disdainful sneer. "Revenge would be keeping him chained to a wall for the rest of his life, making him suffer a little every day. Revenge would be flailing a thin strip off of him, then rubbing salt in the wound to disinfect it. Day after day, night after night. Until his body was nothing but a grotesque mound of scars. There's no revenge in a quick death, Captain Brass."

"Maybe you got angry, couldn't control yourself," he posited, shrugging innocently.

"I never lose control," she answered, as hard and as cold as a block of steel.

"Never?"

"Never. Captain Brass, the only reason you suspect me is because he was whipped, which brings to mind my profession, right?"

"It stands to reason," he said with an amiable shrug.

"Exactly. So give me credit as a professional. I could make him suffer for the next forty years, if we both lived that long. But I can assure you that I would have done everything possible to ensure his longevity – so that he could feel every slice of the blade, every bite of the whip."

Brass raised his eyebrow as he folded his hands over his belly. "You're not doing much to give me a warm fuzzy about this."

"You'll never understand. How about you, Mr. Grissom? Do you think that this looks like my handiwork?"

"On first blush, it fits," he offered half-heartedly.

"We're past first blush. Well past it," she said suggestively.

Grissom cleared his throat, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, across his cheeks, and up to his ears.

"First of all, if I put the word out, as Captain Brass suggested, I'd be announcing my intentions. That would be foolish. Second, if I were going to kill him, I'd hardly use a whip to do it. There are so many more effective ways that are less identifiable. Besides, a man did this, not a woman."

"How can you tell?" Grissom asked.

"Look at the number and depth of the wounds. Someone whipped him with a lot of force, and a lot of blows."

"There's not much in the world as vicious and as dangerous as a woman protecting her child," Brass suggested.

"That's true," Lady Heather nodded. "And if someone had delivered him to me in handcuffs, I'd love to prove that to him as well. Every day of his miserable existence."

"So let me get this straight. You're telling me that you can't be the killer because you would have tortured him instead? That would be an interesting alibi to present in court."

"If there is even one mother on the jury, I think I could sell it. But, to be truthful, I'd probably do neither. Despite the assumptions that you two seem to constantly make, I'm a law-abiding citizen. If he had shown up at my doorstep, I'd have called the police. Let him rot in prison."

"He wouldn't have gone to prison. Zoe didn't let us collect the rape kit," Grissom said gingerly.

"There were other victims, from whom I assume evidence was collected. And you did take skin scrapings from Zoe."

"Juries are funny things," Brass said. "Without an eyewitness, there's no guarantee they'll convict."

The two men turned around when Heather looked towards the door and stood up quickly. Zoe entered the room and walked straight to her mother's side. Her face was swollen and bruised from the attack, but she carried herself with determination. Grissom noted that Heather intercepted her before she could see the photos on her desk.

"What's going on, Mom? He was at the park after…"

"Hello, Zoe," Grissom said delicately, "we need to ask your mother a few questions."

The young woman looked at him for a moment before turning her attention to Brass. "You have a badge. You're not with the Crime Lab."

"No, I'm not. This won't take long. Why don't you wait outside?"

"That's Captain Brass," Heather stated when her daughter turned back to her with a curious expression. "He's with homicide. He and Mr. Grissom think I killed the man who attacked you."

"He's dead?" she asked quietly.

"We're still waiting on final confirmation, but yes, we think so," Grissom said.

"Guess I don't have to talk to the artist then," Zoe replied, leaning softly into her mother's side.

Heather raised an eyebrow when they seemed confused. "Didn't Ms. Sidle tell you? She came to ask Zoe to talk to a forensic artist. We had a very _interesting_ conversation."

"No, I didn't know," Grissom said, his mind immediately beginning to consider what that dialogue had consisted of.

"Zoe, why don't you run along now?" Brass suggested again.

"No. Why would you think my mother had anything to do with his murder?"

"He was whipped to death," Heather explained when neither of them answered.

"That's crazy. Mom wouldn't do anything like that, " Zoe said, rolling her eyes in disgust. " You don't get what goes on here."

"Unfortunately, I spend more time here than I want. Your mother whips people for a living," Brass said. "I think that's why you didn't want to press charges against your attacker. You didn't want that fact made public."

"I'm not embarrassed by what my mother does for a living, Captain. And it's no secret what goes on here."

"Hey," he replied kindly. "It's one thing when you're driving around town in a sports car and joking with all your friends about what she does. It's another when a defense attorney uses it against you at trial."

"How dare …," Zoe began angrily, but stopped herself, taking a moment to regain her control. "First off, I love my mother. It has nothing to do with what she bought me, but the way she raised me. She's always been there for me. I know I've always been her first concern."

"If I thought Zoe was embarrassed of me, Captain Brass, I wouldn't dress the way I do, nor would I be in this line of work. Oh, it's been very profitable, but I have other investments; I don't need to do this."

"And a lawyer may try to make me look bad, but that could easily backfire. Juries don't like it when families are brought into cases. You're doing this because I wouldn't cooperate, aren't you?"

"No," Grissom said quickly. "We're only following the evidence."

"Why don't I believe you?" Zoe asked skeptically.

"Honey, why don't you get Andre? I suspect Captain Brass and Mr. Grissom will be getting a warrant, if they don't already have one. We'll go to lunch while they play Super Sleuths," Heather said, giving her daughter a loving smile. "Go ahead. I'll be along shortly."

"She seems to be holding up well," Grissom noted.

"And it looks like she'll get closure," Brass said sarcastically. "And didn't have to go to trial to do it."

"That was her decision, and I respect her decisions. So it's all irrelevant to me. If she felt it would ease her pain to have him punished, I would have supported that as well. It's her life and her decision. Not mine."

"That's how Zoe feels. But how do you feel ... as her mother?" Brass asked.

Heather's face shone with obvious pride. "I'm proud of how my daughter is handling this. I'm glad that she's here with us while she's healing – physically and emotionally. She's a strong woman."

She moved back to the desk, her head dropping to the side as she turned her gaze on the detective. "It's hard for you, isn't it?"

"I gotta feeling I don't want to know what you're talking about," Brass sighed with a dramatic flair.

"To believe that I have a loving, healthy relationship with my daughter. You can't accept that. Is it because it shatters your assumptions about domination? Or does it highlight the fact that you, who are what society judges 'normal', can't say the same?" Lady Heather pondered, noting the look of pain that crossed his eyes.

"And you," she said, turning to Grissom, "who are you spending the holidays with? The dead? Will you be eating your turkey and dressing at the police station's cafeteria?"

"This isn't about us," Grissom snapped back.

"Are you trying to tell me that you wouldn't have wanted this guy punished?" Brass interjected, trying to regain control over the interview.

"I'm trying to tell you that there isn't a punishment in this world that would make what he did go away. Zoe knows that. She knows that she has a choice to make – let it destroy her, or let it make her stronger."

"That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger," Grissom murmured.

"That's the basis for my whole life, gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse me, I have paying customers who wish to test that theory."

"We'll be talking to you again, Lady Heather," Brass warned.

"Same time next year?" she quipped. "I can show you to the door, but you should know the way out by now."

Brass followed Grissom to the Denali, keeping a watchful eye on Lady Heather's house.

"So what's your gut tell you?" he asked, nodding towards the building.

"I think she's telling the truth," Grissom answered simply

Brass took a slow, deep breath noisily in and out through his nose, squinting slightly at Grissom.

"You have any _objective_ reason for thinking that?"

"Lady Heather's right. Whoever did this had no control. Lady Heather is _always_ in control."

"Too much information, Gil," Brass quipped, adopting a pained expression.

Grissom shot back a look of barely bridled disapproval, eliciting a chuckle from Brass.

"Hey, all I know is that if it was my kid it happened to, all my control would fly right out the window."

"You say that, but you don't really know unless you're in the situation. And Heather would know we'd suspect her immediately, so I doubt she'd leave the body there to be found. I think someone wanted us to find the body. Whoever did this wants people to know that he killed the rapist."

"Maybe Heather wants Zoe to know she took care of things."

"I don't think so. It would be counter to all their beliefs."

"Rage will do that to a person."

"Yes, but we didn't see any evidence of rage, and we saw Heather right after the crime," Grissom pointed out. "Her behavior hasn't changed. It just doesn't fit."

"You think she'd have tortured him? Or turned him in?"

"I have no reason to disbelieve her when she says she'd turn him in."

Brass let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, what Lady Heather says and what she does could be two different things."

"In all of our dealings with her, I've never known her to lie," Grissom said in her defense.

"And you certainly had more ... dealings ... with her than I have," Brass said, moving to his car. He looked over his shoulder to fix his friend with a pointed stare. "You shoulda stuck with the sports car."

_TBC_


	5. I Am The Least In My Family

**Tortured Reasoning   
********Authors: **Mossley and Burked   
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.  
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes aren't her fault.   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

* * *

**Chapter 5 – I Am The Least In My Family**

Sara sat at her workstation, engrossed in reading the preliminary report Jacqui had given her. The dead man's fingerprints matched the prints taken from the steering wheel of Zoe's car. They weren't in AFIS, but they were in the local database because he'd been arrested on a bench warrant for outstanding traffic tickets.

"It's the little things that trip you up," she murmured, chuckling quietly.

Looking at the dates of his incarceration in the Clark County jail, they matched perfectly with the rapist's "silent" period, when the rapes had temporarily stopped.

"Hey! Thanks!" Sara called out to Jacqui as she trudged tiredly down the hall towards the break room.

"I hate you," Jacqui called back without turning her head. "With every fiber of my being."

"Think of it as job security," Sara proffered.

"Two hundred fifty-seven print cards?" Jacqui countered, shaking her head in disbelief.

"It was a motel room," Sara answered, shrugging weakly in apology.

"Remind me to never stay in that motel."

"They said the maid was deported."

"When? In 1975?" Jacqui asked, turning to face Sara. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed.

"Be glad you're doing the prints. You wouldn't believe how much ... uh ... DNA I collected."

"Ew," Jacqui intoned, turning back to her journey towards the prize of hot coffee and a soft couch. Her back was hurting from leaning over the stack of print cards. "I'm going to take a break and plot your murder."

"Just don't leave any DNA," Greg said, meeting up with her in the hall. "I'm a little backed up right now," he added, looking accusingly at Sara.

"You're breaking my heart," Jacqui hissed. "Unless you have two hundred and fifty-seven samples, I've got you beat."

"Yeah, well you don't have to process the crappy samples. You just throw them to the side. I won't know what's good and what's not until I process them."

"Why isn't the new girl doing it?" Jacqui asked.

"You mean the poster girl for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder? It could take her years to process all that stuff by herself."

The volume of the one-upmanship tapered off as the pair veered into the break room. Sara turned back to the boxes sitting next to her. She needed to process the items seized from Lady Heather's domain, but every time she thought about it, her mind would search feverishly for something else that needed to be done first. She recognized that she was avoiding it, and now she'd run out of excuses.

Setting the last box down on the table in the layout room, Sara flipped on the overhead lights and began to unpack. She pulled out the first bagged whip, her face a mask of disgust at the thought of how it had been used.

_Cries of pain, begging for it to end. Wild promises made to fix transgressions that never existed in the first place. _

Sara fought down a wave of nausea, trying to concentrate on work. She grabbed the next bag, taking a ragged breath as the memories crept back.

_First came the yelling, then the desperate pleading. That was followed by the sound of flesh pounding weaker flesh. The distinctive sound bone made when broken. The hopelessness of not being able to do anything to make it stop. Being reduced to hiding, hoping and praying that it would end soon. _

_The fear of knowing that once it did end, he'd come looking for her. _

"Need some help?" Grissom asked kindly as he came up beside Sara.

"I think I can handle it," she said, snapping her head around.

Grissom frowned as an uncomfortable knot formed in his stomach. It was clear he had startled her, but why was she pale? "I'll rephrase. _Want_ some help?"

"Same answer."

"Want some company?" he offered hopefully.

Sara breathed out in mock-frustration. "I sense that this isn't going to stop until I give the correct answer. And my razor-sharp intellect deduces that the correct answer is 'Yes'. Am I right?"

"On both counts," Grissom answered.

"Fine. You can help me unpack all these ... things."

"Are these all the whips in Lady Heather's house?" he asked, seeing that there were four boxes to unpack.

"From the house and the pool house."

"This could put a real dent in her business."

"That's just too damned bad," Sara snapped.

"Sara, I understood when you called them 'freaks'. Most people would probably think that way. But this runs deeper than that, doesn't it?" he asked, turning to watch her reaction.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, angrily slapping each individually bagged whip onto the table.

"Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not angry. I'm disturbed. She's disturbing. This whole thing is disturbing."

"In what way?" Grissom asked gently, lowering the volume and tone of his voice instinctively.

Sara slammed the last bag onto the table, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She held it a few seconds, then grabbed the edge of the table. Whether it was for support or to occupy her hands, Grissom couldn't tell.

"It's disturbing when people get off on inflicting pain on someone else," Sara finally answered, each word spoken deliberately.

"In general, I agree."

"In general? In general?" Sara asked, turning to look at him incredulously.

"Sara, this isn't happening to unsuspecting victims. It's consensual."

"The only thing I find more difficult to understand than enjoying hurting someone is someone else enjoying being hurt."

"It _is_ hard to understand," Grissom agreed. "But, like I said, it's consensual. No one is being victimized."

"If nothing else, it perpetuates violence against other human beings."

"Maybe it prevents violence against other human beings," Grissom offered. "It gives those people an outlet for their feelings."

"You sound like Lady Heather. It's a justification for cruelty."

"Sara, you're shaking," Grissom said, moving closer to her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," she said, turning her face from him.

"I'll finish this. Take the rest of the night off. It's Thanksgiving," Grissom said with a weak smile.

"I've got to do this. Face this," Sara said, standing straight, obviously steeling herself.

"Face what ... exactly?" Grissom asked, leaning over to be able to look at her face.

"Everyone's got their demons," she said icily.

"You want to talk about it?" Grissom asked uncertainly.

"With you?"

"With me. With Dr. Kane. Your PEAP counselor. With whomever you feel comfortable."

The flashback began with her dressing out for PE class with her back to her peers. The other girls laughed with each other, but had long since quit trying to pull Sara into their group. She wanted so badly to join them, to feel a sense of comfortable belonging, but she didn't dare.

_"What happen to your back?" The voice of her PE teacher was firm enough that she was startled, getting unwanted attention from the girls. Thirty sets of eyes were trained on her and the room fell quiet. _

_"Um, nothing. I fell down."_

_"Sara, you can talk to me. Or to the nurse, or the counselor. We can't help you if you don't talk to us."_

_"I'm fine. I just fell down."_

_"Looks like you've been beaten with a belt. Tell me. Let me help you. We can make it stop."_

_"I told you I'm fine. I've got to hurry or I'll be late to class."_

_Then the day came when she did talk about it and her world forever changed, but not all for the better. _

"I don't feel comfortable talking about it at all," she allowed as she emptied the last box onto the table.

Seeing that she was determined to process all the various whips, sjamboks, quirts, cats and other tools of Heather's trade, Grissom followed her lead, taking a swab dipped into distilled water and running it along the length of each surface, then placing a drop of hydrogen peroxide and a drop of phenolphthalein on each swab, looking for the bright pink that would indicate the presence of blood.

An hour later, each was processing their last sample. Sara stood with her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed in consternation.

"Not one sign of blood. Not one. How do they clean them that well? You'd think leather would absorb some of the blood, no matter how well they were cleaned."

"It would," Grissom agreed. "There's no blood because none of them has ever drawn blood."

Sara turned to look at Grissom, obviously confused.

"Heather once told me, years ago, that her domain was like the theater."

"You'll have to explain that to me."

"It's more symbolic than truly sadistic or masochistic. Look at this," Grissom said, holding up a flogger with at least a couple of dozen tails. "These are wide and made of soft leather, like gloves. I'm not sure you could even raise a welt with it, much less draw blood."

"Then what the hell is their point?" Sara asked, obviously exasperated.

"It's about control. People who have no control go there to feel like they do have control. Or people who have to be in control all the time go to be able to let someone else control them. It's about domination, submission, and sometimes humiliation. But it's not always really about pain. No one there is really trying to injure anyone."

"I'll take your word for it. And I won't even ask what makes you such an expert on S&M," Sara added, with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

"It's certainly not from any personal experience, I can assure you," Grissom countered quickly.

"That's not what I heard."

"Don't believe everything that you hear," Grissom said with more than a little resignation and sadness.

"It's none of my business, anyway," Sara said, beginning to repack all of Heather's belongings back into the boxes to return to her.

"That doesn't stop you from choosing to believe the worst," Grissom said as he joined in the repacking. He needed to do something to distract himself somewhat from the admixture of his own shame and Sara's obvious displeasure.

"I never would have believed it," Sara said quietly. "You risked your job to have a relationship with a suspect."

Grissom paused, his heart heavy as a flash of insight hit him. Sara understood why he had never acted on their mutual feelings. But he took the same risk to have a fling with a woman he barely knew. That had to be painful for Sara. His fingers ran over a whip remorsefully. And Heather's occupation only made his indiscretion worse in her eyes.

"It wasn't a relationship and she wasn't a suspect at the time. I had one – just one – encounter with Heather, and as soon as she became a suspect, I had nothing else to do with her that wasn't strictly professional."

"She's still a dominatrix. Didn't that still seem like a risk to your career?"

"At the moment, that wasn't what I was thinking."

"You mean, at the moment, you weren't thinking at all."

"I supposed you're right," Grissom admitted. "She came on very strong, making me feel attractive and interesting. I'm not accustomed to that kind of attention. At least not anymore."

"I guess I can relate," Sara said sadly. She had long ago recognized that Hank's interest in her didn't make her feel love for him as much as she felt something more akin to gratitude for him validating that she was still desirable.

After packing the last of the leather implements, Grissom silently faced Sara. He considered his next step. While he regretted the hurt he caused her, an apology didn't seem right; Sara was already involved with the paramedic when he had his encounter with Heather.

"I'll take this stuff back to Lady Heather's. You take the rest of the night off," he directed kindly.

"Flowers and a bottle of decent wine would make a nice apology to her."

"For bringing all this in as evidence?" Grissom asked, confused.

"No. For dumping her."

"I think it's a little late for apologies. She probably doesn't think a thing about it now."

"No one likes to be dumped."

"It wasn't a long-term relationship, Sara."

"Sleeping with someone is a commitment in my world, Grissom. A commitment is a commitment. If you can't honor the commitment, the least you can do is be honorable about breaking it."

He huffed out a breath slowly and gave his head a half-shake. No matter what he said, it seemed to be the wrong thing. Did Sara now think he treated relationships as disposable?

"I doubt she has exactly the same world-view you have."

"You never know. Maybe she'll be impressed and take you back."

"I don't want her to take me back," Grissom said defensively.

"Don't you want someone to care for you?"

"Sure, I guess."

Sara watched him for a long moment. "Don't you want someone to care for?"

"I guess."

"You know, Grissom," Sara chuckled, "about ninety-nine percent of the sane population would have answered 'yes' to both of those questions. Probably most of the insane population as well."

"Which population do you put me in?" he asked with a grin.

"I take the fifth. Amendment, that is," she added quickly.

"Speaking of fifth, how's your PEAP counseling going?"

"Oh, that was a smooth transition. I hope you aren't considering going into psychology. You suck at it," she laughed, though there was no joy in it.

But the humor began to lighten the uncomfortable pall that had fallen between them.

"I never was a people person," Grissom admitted, shrugging.

"No! Really?" Sara teased.

"You have no room to talk," he shot back, mock-seriously.

"We're all products of our pasts," she said through a smile that seemed forced.

"That we are," Grissom agreed. "Some day I'll regale you with the saga of my bittersweet youth."

"At least there was some sweet to it."

"I imagine you were a precocious little angel that the family doted on," Grissom said, smiling at the visual he'd created of a dark-eyed cherub with pig-tails and rosy cheeks.

_"Now look what you've done! You've made Larry mad and we're all going to catch hell!"_

_"I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I'll be a good girl. I promise. I promise!"_

_"All you care about is yourself! Don't you realize that he's putting a roof over our heads and food on the table?"_

_"I'm sorry, Mommy," Sara sobbed over and over in her mind. The fear that was originally attached to the memory had long ago been replaced by anger at those who should have protected her. _

"Hardly," she said curtly, picking up a box. "Here, I'll help you load these up."

The sudden change in her demeanor caught Grissom off-guard. He felt like he should say something to bring back the comfort they had just begun to feel, but he wasn't sure what to say. He felt he was walking through a minefield blindfolded.

"Sara ... I'm sorry. I don't know what I said wrong, but whatever it was, I apologize."

"It's not your place to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong," she said, making her way into the hallway to cut off any further probing from Grissom. He quickly stacked the remaining two boxes and followed her out to his Denali. After they put them into the back, she started to walk smartly back towards the lab.

Grissom's first reaction was to follow her, to try everything he could think of to change her mood. He exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest, realizing that there was probably little he could do. Whatever the problem was went a lot deeper than a bad mood.

"What happened to you, Sara?" he asked himself, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

* * *

"Back again so soon, Mr. Grissom?" Lady Heather asked, a practiced smile of greeting on her face. "And a Happy Thanksgiving to you."

"I hope I'm not interrupting your preparations?"

"My preparations? No. I have the meal catered. My employees have very healthy appetites."

"I can imagine."

Heather's smile never wavered, but her eyes hardened. "You are, however, interrupting my time with my daughter."

"Then the sooner we start, the quicker you can get back to Zoe. May I?"

"Where's your chaperone?" Lady Heather asked mockingly as she led him to her office.

"I'm a big boy. I don't need a chaperone," Grissom retorted, attempting to come across as relaxed and humorous, though he felt like neither.

"Yes, I recall that," Lady Heather quipped, immediately taking the forced smile from Grissom's face.

He cleared his throat before taking a seat. "I brought your equipment back. I'll leave it in the pool house, if you'd like."

"That would be fine. I appreciate it being returned so expeditiously."

"I was also hoping that we could go back over the statement you made to me and Captain Brass."

"I have nothing to add. I told you I had nothing to do with it. I was here at the time."

"Any witnesses?"

"Of course. I'm not one of those managers who stays hidden away in an office. I'm more what you'd call a 'hands-on' kind of manager, no pun intended."

"Yes, I recall that," Grissom retorted.

"Of course you would," she replied simply.

"Heather, I'm not trying to hurt you, but someone killed Zoe's rapist. It was done in a method that obviously points in your direction. Could one of your employees have gotten … overzealous?"

"I don't willingly hire killers. Chloe Samms was an aberration. Almost everyone in my employ could fit into a church social without raising suspicion – as long as they didn't wear their work attire," she added in wry amusement.

"Do you have any enemies?"

A finely groomed eyebrow rose meaningfully. "I help people explore their sexuality through means that society finds unusual. Because of that, there are people who are repulsed by me. Even more fear me. But enemies? I don't think so."

"Which leads us back to who would do this."

Lady Heather remained silent for a long moment, thoughtfully examining one of the masks decorating her walls. "You know, Mr. Grissom, something popped into my mind after we spoke last time."

"Tell me. Anything at all could prove helpful."

"Have you, by any chance, spoken to Zoe's father?" she asked cautiously.

"No. I didn't really give it any thought. Does he live in Vegas?"

"Yes, to the best of my knowledge. I don't have anything to do with him, but Zoe hears from him from time to time. Generally whenever he's completely broke," she said distastefully.

"Would you give me his name and contact information?"

"I can give you his name. I'll ask Zoe for the rest. As I said, I never initiate any contact with him."

"Acrimonious divorce?" Grissom hazarded.

"No, not really. He doesn't have the balls for an acrimonious divorce."

Grissom raised an eyebrow in surprise. Heather noticed the gesture and shrugged half-heartedly.

"I don't know what I ever saw in him, but in my own defense, he changed a lot when he got involved with drugs."

"That's a frequent side-effect."

"I have no respect for anyone with so little self-esteem or self-control."

Grissom nodded. Drug abusers lost their control to their addictions. It was easy to see that Heather would have no patience with such a person. But could it influence her thoughts about her ex?

"Do you have any reason to suspect that he's involved?" he asked directly.

"No. Nothing tangible," she admitted. "I know that Zoe called him when we got home. He came by and I directed him to the guesthouse, where she's been staying since she got back into town. He was very agitated, as you'd expect."

"That's natural."

"Yes, it is. But what isn't natural is what I saw the day after that. I heard a car drive back behind the house, so I looked out the window. I saw Tim heading to the door of the guesthouse. He was different. He'd cleaned up a little. But what was really odd was how he carried himself. He walked with determination. Like he had a purpose now. I don't know how to describe it, but it's very unusual for him."

"So you think your ex-husband killed Zoe's attacker?"

"I wouldn't put it past him. Not that he's normally the killer type. Far from it. It would be too much like work for him to actually plan and execute a murder," she said flatly.

"But?"

"But even Zoe was getting tired of his shenanigans. I think he may have done something to 'prove' himself. Maybe he wants us to think he's not such a loser, that's he's a strong man and a good father."

"What makes you think that?" Grissom asked.

"He's been trying to contact me off and on for just over a year. Cards on my birthday and Christmas. Last Valentine's Day there was a box of cheap chocolates on the doorstep."

"You're a diabetic," he said in confusion.

"Very good, Mr. Grissom. At least you're more attentive than Tim. He's tried to call a few times, but I don't pick up. He's left a message once or twice, saying he was just checking on how I was."

"You think he wants to reconcile?"

"I try not to think of him at all," Heather scoffed.

"But you see these as overtures?"

"Probably. But I believe in letting the past be the past."

Grissom gave her a sagacious nod. "That's probably a healthy outlook."

Lady Heather leaned back in her chair, regarding him carefully. "It is as long as you've dealt with it first. You can't bury the past."

Grissom nodded slowly, wondering where the conversation was heading.

"Don't worry, I'm not talking about you," Lady Heather offered with a smile. "We've already gone over that subject."

"I'll have Brass check him out ..." Grissom began, glad that he wasn't going to be the center of the conversation.

"Ms. Sidle works for you, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does," he answered somewhat stiffly. An odd feeling of conflict rose up in him.

"She's pretty tightly wound."

Grissom's unease grew. Heather's earlier perceptions of Sara had torn him apart, making him wonder if he'd spent years overlooking or ignoring clues about Sara's past. That led him to question every aspect of their relationship over the last several years, to see his actions in a new light. It had been … unpleasant. Sara's mood when he'd left the lab had done nothing to quell his growing unease.

Part of him wanted to leave quickly, afraid that she would offer new insights that would further shake his emotional foundations. But he was also unwilling to leave. Some part of his demanded to solve the mystery of Sara Sidle.

"She's very energetic," Grissom offered.

"Is she now?" Lady Heather asked with a knowing smile.

"She works hard," Grissom amended.

"Indeed. Maybe too hard."

"I would think that you'd admire her work ethic."

"I do. If that's what's behind it."

Grissom tilted his head questioningly, but didn't put words to his thoughts.

"There's a lot of pain in that woman, Mr. Grissom. Old wounds that have never healed properly. It's like a deep infection. All may look fine on the surface, but underneath there's a rot that will eventually spread if it isn't excised."

"I really wouldn't know," Grissom offered weakly. "I'm not one to involve myself in my employees' personal lives."

"If she doesn't do something about it, soon it'll be too late. If you cared anything about her, you'd intervene."

"That would be inappropriate. We have departmental resources at her disposal."

Lady Heather regarded him coolly. "So she's just some random employee and you don't give a damn whether she falls to pieces or not?"

"I didn't say that. Of course I'm interested in the welfare of all of my employees."

"You are being entirely too vague, Mr. Grissom. That tells me more than you think. You do care about her. I can see how uncomfortable you are, talking about her with me."

"I'd feel uncomfortable talking about anyone behind their back."

She got out of her chair, moving to the mantle over the fireplace. There, she picked up one of the baubles heralding her trade, adjusting its position before facing Grissom again.

"Not this uncomfortable. No. There's more to it. And that makes it all the more unbelievable that you don't do anything to help her."

"Her life is her own, Heather," he sighed. "I can't just interject myself into it. I don't have the right."

"You have the right to be a friend, don't you? You have the right to push a little on that wall of hers. It wouldn't take much at this point for it to crumble. And when it does, someone needs to be there that she trusts. Does she trust you?"

Grissom looked away. He closed his eyes for a moment, realizing his body language had just provided Heather with more information than he wanted to reveal. How could he answer that question? He had no idea how Sara felt about him anymore, if he ever did.

"I wouldn't know. You'd have to ask her that."

"Another telling answer. Have you given her reason to not trust you? Were you ever involved?"

"No, of course not!"

"Her choice or yours?"

"Lady Heather, I didn't come here to discuss my personal life, or that of one of my employees," he barked.

She smiled at him as she slunk by his chair on the way to the other side of her desk.

"Once you walk through those doors, you're in my domain. What you came here for and what you end up getting may be two entirely different things."

"Yes, I recall that as well," Grissom conceded reluctantly.

"Does she know that you and I were once intimate?"

"It's not something that I generally tell people. But, yes, she's aware of it."

"Is that why she doesn't trust you?"

"I didn't say she didn't trust me," Grissom shot back in frustration. "I said you'd have to ask her."

"What do you imagine she thinks of it? Does she assume that it was personal or professional in nature?" Heather asked, sitting on the edge of her desk before him, crossing her legs in a slow, smooth motion.

Grissom remained silent.

"Would she believe you'd pay for sex? Would she think you got the full treatment, with bondage and domination? Would she assume you were dominant? Would she assume you were submissive? What do you think she'd think?"

"I don't know what she thinks," he answered weakly, swallowing ineffectively at the lump that painfully blocked his throat. "We didn't discuss it in intimate detail."

"Would it be easier for her to believe I would fit into your world, or that you'd fit into in mine?"

"I told you I don't know. And I have to insist that you not discuss my private life with anyone else."

"In this case, Mr. Grissom, it involves my private life as well. And I can damn well discuss my private life with whomever I wish."

"Heather ..." Grissom began, almost pleadingly.

"Stop that! I have to listen to whining and begging all the time! Say what you want with confidence."

"Don't play your mind games with me or Sara anymore!"

"See," Lady Heather purred. "That wasn't so difficult. The alpha male that had intrigued me years ago is finally showing through again."

"I couldn't care less if I intrigue you or not," Grissom said haughtily as he turned to make his way to the less oppressive air of the world outside of the domain.

"All the more intriguing," she purred behind him.

Having placed Heather's equipment in the pool house as promised, Grissom sat for a moment in his SUV, trying to calm himself. Snippets of his conversation with Sara interwove with bits of Heather's wisdom. Other things Sara had said or done over the years began to pop unbidden into his thoughts, taking on a different significance now that he looked at them with new eyes.

He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button for Sara's home number.

"Hey, just checking to see if you're home," he said.

"You sent me home," she answered.

"That doesn't always work," he countered, trying to sound light-hearted.

"I'm under a lot of departmental scrutiny now. I can't afford to add insubordination to public intoxication. Everything seems to go into my personnel file now."

"I'm not the bad guy," Grissom said in his own defense.

"I'm just stating the facts."

"I didn't have much choice. I was looking out for you."

"Really." Sara said it more like a doubt than a question.

"You had to know that everyone in the Sheriff's Department would find out about you being picked up. If we documented the incident so that it didn't get blown out of proportion, and also that you completed your PEAP counseling, it shows that you addressed the situation. The slate may not be spotless, but it's a lot better than trying to sweep it under the rug."

"You mixed your metaphors."

"What?"

"You mixed your metaphors. First it was a slate, then a rug. That's not like you."

"I'm tired and I'm ...," Grissom shook his head slightly and took a breath to give himself time to find what he wanted to say amongst all the thoughts coursing through his mind. "I'm a little worried."

"About the case? The rape was solved ... with a little unwelcome help. And we're processing the evidence from the murder. I feel confident."

"Not about the case. About you."

"What about me?" Sara asked uneasily. "This isn't still about the drinking thing, is it? When are you going to let that go?"

"No, it's not about drinking. At least not entirely. Something's wrong, and I think this case is making it worse for you."

"And I already explained that it doesn't concern you. If there was something wrong," she added unconvincingly.

Sitting at a traffic light, Grissom licked his lips fretfully. Any doubts he had that Sara was hiding something from him had long passed. Whatever haunted her was getting harder for her to control. It pained him to admit it, but Heather was right. Sara needed to deal with her demons.

But his years of putting distance between them had worked too well. Now that Sara needed his help, he had no way to reach her.

"I don't know what to do," he finally said softly.

"So what else is new?" Sara quipped, trying to force the conversation back on a light track.

"Not knowing what to do isn't the same as not caring."

"Grissom…"

He waited anxiously for her to continue, convinced he'd heard a partially-stifled sob. When she did speak again, Sara's voice was firm.

"Tell you what. After you figure out what to do, call me then. Not before."

Hearing the click coming from the other end, Grissom slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he put his phone away. "Dammit, Sara. Let me help."

_TBC_


	6. For In Much Wisdom Is Much Grief

**Tortured Reasoning  
Authors:** Mossley and Burked  
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.  
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes aren't her fault.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit. 

**Chapter 6 - For In Much Wisdom Is Much Grief**

After setting down the phone, Sara rested her elbows on the breakfast bar and dropped her head into her hands. As much as it irked her, the truth was this case was getting to her. She couldn't deny it any longer. Sara wondered if should have paid more attention to the PEAP counselor; she knew she needed to find a way to deal with this.

Talking didn't help; people only treated you differently once they knew the truth. You were "damaged goods". Grissom would never use that term, but he didn't even like the normal complications that came from social interactions. This was something he wasn't prepared to handle.

He was certainly being tenacious, though. A wry smile formed behind her fingers. She once thought his attention was something that she wanted, but not like this. His intentions were good, but Grissom had no idea what he was getting involved in.

And she didn't want his pity. "God, Grissom," she muttered sadly. "Now I don't know what to do."

With a resigned sigh, Sara pushed off from the counter and began to pace her small apartment.

Grissom probably thought he was being helpful by sending her home, but she wanted to be at the lab. It was more than a drive to solve this crime – it was her way of coping with being alone on the holidays. If she buried herself in work, she didn't have time to dwell on her isolation.

She looked at her computer; she could find a list of online vendors that sold whips. Doc suggested that the murder weapon would have been made of kangaroo leather – it was the type that was durable enough to inflict the extensive damage to the rapist. A shudder ran down her body; that wasn't something she wanted to do on Thanksgiving.

Her parents had never been traditional, often foregoing holiday celebrations, and Sara grew up wistfully dreaming of the perfect family gathering. Her fantasy could have been a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting. There would be plenty of food and laughter and everyone would be happy.

But it never happened.

After her father died, things got worse. Mom had been unable to cope with her loss, raising two children alone and keeping the bed and breakfast operational. There hadn't been enough insurance; soon, they lost everything.

Her mother had settled with Larry, an abusive alcoholic who blamed his failures on everyone but himself. He was determined to make everyone as miserable as he was.

_She'd heard him storming into the house and dashed to a small alcove behind the stove. From her hiding spot, she watched the turkey, stuffed and ready for the oven, go flying to the floor. _

_"Larry, that's for Thanksgiving."_

_"What the hell do I have to be thankful for? For you?" he sneered sarcastically. " I got to feed you and your brats! You should be thanking me for putting up with your shit, not wasting my money on a fancy meal."_

_"Larry, the turkey was free. It didn't cost you …"_

_"You took charity? You saying I don't do enough for you? You ungrateful bitch!"_

_"No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."_

_"You will be! I'll teach you to insult me like that."_

_When he stopped the beating long enough to toss the turkey to the dogs outside, Sara bolted to her room. She hid under the bed, crying tears of fear and frustration. _

Sara gave her head a harsh shake, marching to the kitchen where she opened the fridge. Scanning the contents didn't take long, but she kept the door ajar, letting the cool air wash over her soothingly.

When she was younger, Sara had tried volunteering at a homeless shelter. It was supposed to be therapeutic helping others who were in a worse situation. Instead, all it did was emphasis how alone she really was. Even the street people had formed families of sorts, looking out for each other in their own ways.

She was cleaning up tables when an arguably schizophrenic woman cornered her, asking Sara why she wasn't home with her family. She'd left early, near tears when the deluded woman offered to be her grandmother and tried to pull Sara to a table where her other "relatives" were waiting.

It hadn't been so bad in San Francisco. Her supervisor came from an extended family, and he made sure those working on the holidays always had a bit of a celebration. He personally organized a buffet for all the shifts, having each employee contribute something to the communal feast.

_"Hey, Sidle! What's your family's traditional dish?" he'd asked innocently. _

_"Salmonella" she shot back, her intellect providing a cover and a laugh to the rest of the shift. She was quickly elected to provide the paper goods for the meal. _

_But it didn't take her boss long to notice that she never asked off on the holidays, and if she had a day off land on one, Sara always traded with someone who wanted to spend the day with their loved ones. _

_She vaguely answered that she didn't have any family left, and graciously turned down his offers to join his family for dinner. She'd done that a few times in college, but Sara was never able to shake the feeling that she was an outsider. _

_No one in Vegas had ever noticed she worked on all the holidays. _

Sara shifted some half-empty containers around in the fridge. Nothing looked appetizing. Las Vegas was a true tourist's town; there'd be restaurants and carryout open, but Sara didn't want to go out or order in. Both served as painful reminders that she had no family.

_Growing up, her brother had been impatient with his 'snotty' little sister, but once they went to live with Larry, he'd tried to protect her. Pete was older, but he wasn't that big. He didn't stand a chance with a direct confrontation with Larry. _

_Instead, Pete promised to take her away once he turned eighteen. And he tried to make life more bearable. _

_Sara woke in a terrified state. Someone was in her room. Only one person ever came into the tiny attic room, and he only came for one reason. She cried out in relief when Pete started handing over her clothes. _

_"Get dressed. Quick."_

_"Why?" she asked, but following her brother's directions once he turned his back. _

_"It's Christmas!"_

_"We don't have any presents."_

_"So? We can still have a celebration. The Spencers on the next block have a huge light display up. I got some candy."_

_"Larry'll get mad if we go out."_

_"He went to get more beer. We can run over and back before he knows we're missing. I have the ladder outside your window."_

_Smiling happily, little Sara hurriedly dressed. She was reaching for her shoes when they heard the swearing outside. Larry was already home, and he'd discovered the ladder. The siblings stared at each other in a frightened silence. _

_"Change back!" Pete urged quietly. "I'll tell him I had the ladder out because I heard some squirrels on the roof."_

_"Oh, yeah. That's a good one," Larry growled as he squeezed his body in the small window. "You two snots going to run away? I should let you. God knows you aren't worth bothering about."_

_"We weren't running away," Pete said in a shaky voice. "We were just going to see the lights."_

_"Don't lie to me, you little bastard. I ain't in the mood for your lip. Damn stores are closed for this stupid holiday."_

_The beating was quick and relatively mild, as if Larry didn't want to waste any excess energy on her brother. He shoved the boy out into the hallway, giving him a parting kick to the ribs when Pete fell to the ground. _

_The door to her bedroom closed ominously. Sara pulled the covers up to her chin and shivered uncontrollably as Larry walked towards her. The reek of cheap beer filled the room as he began to undo his belt. _

_"If you wanted a celebration, all you had to do was ask," Larry slurred, ripping the sheets from her terrified grip. _

"Dammit!"

The refrigerator door slammed loudly. Sara resumed her pacing, holding herself tightly.

* * *

Detective Brass pulled off his sunglasses with his left hand when the door to the shabby apartment opened. 

"You Tim Grey?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile that more resembled a smirk, especially with the glint in his eyes.

"Who's asking?" the man on the other side of the threshold asked suspiciously.

"Jim Brass. Homicide." Brass held out his hand uncharacteristically, squeezing Grey's hand in a manly handshake.

Grey winced slightly at the corner of one eye, but strove to remain impassive, despite the pain in his right hand.

Brass continued to grasp his hand, cocking his head slightly.

"What kind of work you do, Mr. Grey? You've got blisters all over your hand."

"I ... uh ... sometimes I do ... um ... odd jobs. You know, like yard work, cleaning garages, stuff like that. You know," he answered weakly, shrugging.

Brass let go of Grey's right hand and quickly grasped his left, turning it over.

"You only work with one hand?" he asked, his smirk becoming more pronounced.

"What's this about?" Grey snapped, pulling his hand back.

"I'm investigating a homicide."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."

"You can't come in here without a warrant," Grey said fervently.

"You got something you don't want me to see?" Brass asked.

"I know my rights!"

"Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows their rights. You know my rights? I got the right to haul your ass to the station for questioning, since you don't seem to feel very sociable today."

"On what grounds?"

"I don't have to have any grounds to pull you in for questioning, other than the simple fact that you aren't being very cooperative. I can hold you for 72 hours before charging you with anything if I can think up a good enough excuse. Fortunately, I've had a lot of experience with this, so I bet I can come up with something. We might have to do a drug test or something when I bring you in. You been drinking plenty of cranberry juice?"

"I don't do drugs."

"Yeah? You look like a doper to me, and I've seen it all, brother."

"So what? What if you did do a drug test? What if I didn't pass? If I'm not in public and you don't find any dope on me, you ain't got shit. You're not going to get a search warrant based on a piss test."

"Ooh! Aren't you just full of jailhouse legal training? You can always tell the criminals from the decent folk by how much detail they know about the legal system. Only lawyers and cops know as much about it as the common street thug."

"Buzz off, Brass. I got nothing to say to you," Grey said snidely, starting to shut the door.

"You're a man with options, my friend. You can talk to me here, now. You can come with me to the station. Those are just talking. Or, you can be difficult, piss me off, and I'll get a warrant for your arrest, even if I have to make something up. Once we arrest you and run a drug screen, we get a warrant to search the premises. See how unpleasant it can get when you decide to be a prick?"

"Fuck you, Brass," Grey said bitterly.

"You're not my type. Besides, I'm not getting any younger and I've got a date tomorrow night. Gotta save my strength. Now, tell me ... we gonna talk like a couple of gentlemen? Or do I have to go all badass on you?"

Grey exhaled loudly through his nose, trying to decide whether it appeared more innocent to talk or to continue to protest his rights as a citizen.

"What do you want to talk about? I don't know anything about any homicide."

"Okay, let's start at the basics. You're Zoe Grey's father, right?"

"Yeah. Why? What's she got to do with this?"

"Everything, my friend. You know this man?" Brass asked, holding up the photo of the cleaned up corpse, taken just prior to his autopsy.

"Damn," Grey murmured, shaking his head vehemently. "Who is it? I've never seen a dead person before. Damn."

"It's the man who attacked Zoe," Brass answered simply.

"Then death's too good for that sorry sack of shit," Grey spat out.

"Funny, your ex-wife was telling us the same thing."

"Heather?"

"How many ex-wives you got?"

"Just the one. Uh, what did she say?"

Brass kept his face passive as he shifted his weight. Grey's eagerness to know Lady Heather's reaction was telling. It added weight to her suspicion. He'd already pulled Grey's record; the guy was on the tail-end of a downward spiral. No wonder his kid was ready to give up on him.

"Lady Heather? She wasn't impressed. Said the killer was an amateur," Brass answered smoothly, noting Grey's sudden change in demeanor. "And she said that she would have preferred for him to suffer the rest of his life than to die so quickly."

Grey tried to shrug off his obvious disappointment.

"She must have been mad when she said that. She's not really the type to hold a grudge."

"Well, having your kid hurt like that will bring out the worst in just about anybody, right?"

"I guess. How did he die?"

"Beaten to death. Actually, whipped to death."

"You think my ex-wife did that?"

"What do you think?"

"She might have, but I don't think so. Maybe that young stud that works for her did it. He's always hanging around them."

"Which stud? She's got several young men working for her," Brass prodded.

"That guy with the pansy name. What was it? Armand? No. Andre? Yeah, Andre. I'd bet you a week's wages that's not his real name."

"When was the last time you earned a week's wages?" Brass asked pointedly.

"That's not the point. The point is that he lives there like he's the cock of the walk. He acts like he's the man of the house."

"Heather said he was like a son to her."

"Son. Yeah. Sure. Right," Grey scoffed.

"Well, I'll check on all the leads I get. But, you know, you're not out of the woods yet."

"Huh?"

"We still need to exclude you as a suspect."

"How? I didn't do anything."

"Where were you last night?"

"Here at my apartment. Watching TV."

"Any witnesses?"

"No. I was by myself."

"Hmm. We'll have to think of another way," Brass said warmly, as though he was trying his best to help Grey. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, furrowing his brows in thought.

"Oh! Wait! I've got it. Give me a sample of your DNA. It's easy. All I have to do is rub this long Q-tip on the inside of your cheek. When we get warrants to search all the suspects' houses and find the whip, we'll compare everyone's DNA to what's on the whip handle. No problem."

"Uh, okay, I guess," Grey said, uneasily. His mind had been racing to find a way to gracefully decline the DNA sample, and he knew it couldn't be compelled without a warrant. But he also knew that refusing would make him look suspicious to Brass, and considering his lifestyle, having the police snooping around was the last thing he wanted.

Brass dramatically pulled on a pair of latex gloves and smiled as he took the sample, closing the cap on it and sliding it into his jacket pocket.

"There. That should do it for now, Mr. Grey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I've got to cover all the bases, you know?"

"I understand, Detective Brass. You're just doing your job," Grey said, forcing a smile.

Plopping down into the seat of his car, Brass chuckled to himself. "God, I'm good."

* * *

Handing the DNA sample over to Grissom at the Crime Lab, Brass took a moment to fill out a Chain of Custody form, then handed it over to Grissom to sign. He recounted the high points of the conversation with Grey to Grissom. 

"Jim, are you sure it was wise to tell him you were going to get a warrant to search the suspects' houses? Didn't you just tip your hand?"

"You know, Gil, you're really smart at all this science stuff, but you still don't know all the tricks of the trade. Look, it's several days until next trash pickup, right? If he's got that whip in his house, he's gonna want to get rid of it real bad now. No way he's going to let it stay in the house until next pickup. I've planted a bug in him that's gonna gnaw at him until he gets rid of it."

"So what's to keep him from ditching it anywhere?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I hope he does. I've got surveillance on him 'round the clock. If he leaves, it's only going to be to ditch the whip or buy drugs. Either one, he's busted."

"I thought you liked Lady Heather for the murder," Grissom said.

"Nah, not really. I just like to push her buttons. She's got moxie."

"Moxie? How film noir of you, Brass."

"Well, as soon as I laid my eyes on this Grey, I knew he was hinky. And he tried like hell to throw that kid Andre under the bus. Sounded real jealous of the boy."

"So, what's next?" Grissom asked.

"You know how the cop business works. It's all hurry up and wait. Now we wait. If he's our guy, I bet he makes a move within 24 hours. We grab him and hope we find the whip. After that, it's all up to you. You _can_ get DNA from the whip, right?"

"I can get DNA from air," Greg said confidently as he passed the two men. It was true that he wanted to be in the field as a CSI, but he still wanted to be respected for his years of work as a DNA Analyst. He had been the top DNA Analyst in the top local Crime Lab in the nation. He didn't want to abandon that as much as he wanted to build on it.

"The leather will soak up sweat and blood like a sponge. Greg won't have any problem getting DNA from both ends, unless the perp goes to extraordinary measures, like soaking it in pure bleach or burning it."

"I don't think this guy's got that much criminal experience under his belt, other than drugs and petty burglaries, maybe."

"Let's hope you're right," Grissom exhaled. "That whip is the only thing tying the perp to the crime.

"What about the ligatures? Isn't there any DNA on them?" Brass asked.

"Probably, if our perp didn't wear gloves. Greg's processing them now. But even if they match Grey, at most that proves his tied the guy down. He could say it was for a little kinky sex. We still wouldn't be able to prove he actually delivered the mortal blows unless we can link him to the weapon."

"He had motive. The ligatures would put him at the crime scene. The DA might decide to run with that, even if we can't produce the weapon," Brass said hopefully. "Hell, Scott Peterson just got the death penalty with no forensic evidence at all. Nothing but circumstantial evidence and innuendo."

"When juries don't have facts to consider, they use their emotions, like in the Peterson case. Here we have a man we'd be saying killed his daughter's rapist, not some guy accused of murdering his pregnant wife. I don't think the DA would want to try to push it without some evidence. We've got a lot of evidence in the works. Let's see what we come up with before we try to talk the DA into anything. "

"Let the evidence do the talking, right?" Brass asked.

"It has a story to tell. We just have to be willing to shut up and listen," Grissom agreed.

* * *

Grissom was moving down the lab hallway rapidly. Rounding the corner, he saw Sara approaching him with equal speed, but there was a strained air around her. He'd hoped she'd use her time off to rest, but Sara looked like she hadn't slept at all. 

He motioned to her before stepping into the Layout Room. Before he could ask how she was, she pulled out a report. "Jacqui got several hits from the prints we lifted at the motel room. Tim Grey's were all over the place," Sara said.

"And Brass just called. The cops caught him throwing away a blood-stained whip."

"I'll grab my kit," she said, glancing briefly when Grissom fell in beside her. She smiled ruefully. "Guess we should be glad that criminals are stupid."

Grissom's head nodded to one side briefly. "If Heather was correct in his motivations, the whip represents his proving himself as a good father and protector. He wouldn't have been thinking about the legal complications of keeping the murder weapon."

"Or he's just a dumb ass."

"The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."

Sara raised an eyebrow in quiet confirmation. They moved with silent efficiency as they gathered their supplies and headed out in a Denali. While they waited at a traffic light, Grissom turned to face her. Sara's chin rested on her hand as she stared out the side window.

"Are you okay?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Just thinking."

"About anything in particular?"

"Zoe."

"And?"

"I feel so sorry for her. And please don't start lecturing me on not feeling for the victims. I'm really not in the mood for it."

Grissom didn't respond, but resumed their trek to the station. His eyes darted to the side when he heard the long sigh coming from the seat beside him. Sara had turned around to regard him tensely.

"After all she went through, now she's going to lose her father. If he'd killed the guy while he was attacking Zoe, Grey could probably walk. A jury would buy a father protecting his daughter. But this was a sadistic killing, planned after the fact. He's toast. Zoe's going to suffer again."

"She has her mother. They seem to be very close," Grissom noted.

"I know," Sara admitted, giving a brief shrug as if she found that fact hard to believe. "That's probably what's keeping her going."

"The love between a parent and a child is universal."

His head snapped when she snorted disdainfully.

"How many murders do we deal with where one family member kills another one?" she asked pointedly.

"A lot," he conceded.

"How many cases do we deal with where a parent is abusing a child?"

"Too many."

"And you really think that parental love is universal?"

"We always deal with people at the low points of their lives. It's a distorted view of reality," he said softly. "Most people don't kill someone. Most people don't abuse their children."

"But it's enough," Sara replied with equal faintness. "Don't assume, Grissom. It's what you always warn us about. Don't fall for it yourself."

Grissom's brow knitted as his fingers began a staccato beat on the steering wheel. Nick's large family was no secret, and Warrick often spoke about the grandmother who raised him. He knew more than he ever wanted to know about Catherine's personal life. Even Greg brought up his Papa Olaf on occasion.

But in all the years he knew Sara, both in Vegas and before, she'd only made one passing reference to her family. The drumming stopped as his free hand wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

"Are you speaking from experience?" he finally asked, hoping that she'd laugh off that as well.

He glanced to the side in time to see her brief head movement before Sara wrapped her arms around herself and focused on the passing lights.

* * *

"Heather, Zoe," Grissom said in greeting as he and Sara approached the interrogation room. "What are you doing here?" 

"Tim called Zoe when he was arrested. I've arranged to have my lawyer represent Tim."

"Let me guess. You have a lawyer on retainer as well as a doctor," Sara said.

"Of course," Heather replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "Some clients like to try exert control that extends beyond the games we play. I have a lawyer to remind them that I am the ruler of my domain, not them."

"Don't you ever get tired of being in control?" Sara asked, her brow furrowing when a sudden insight into herself flitted across her consciousness.

"I don't try to control the people I care about," Heather answered, looking towards her daughter. "And my job isn't to control others, but to get them to have an epiphany about the whole notion of controlling or being controlled. It's all an illusion."

"They aren't going to let you see your ex-husband until he's in jail or released," Grissom cautioned, more to fill the empty air that fell between them than to impart any information.

"I know, but Zoe wanted to come support her father. I support Zoe."

"I think I'll look for the vending machines," Zoe said abruptly.

"I can show you where they are," Sara offered.

"I think I can find them. That is, unless I'm required to have some sort of official escort here."

"No. Just trying to be helpful," Sara answered.

"Save it for someone who needs your help," Zoe shot back, turning on her heel to leave the others standing in the hallway.

"She's a little miffed at me for putting you on her father's trail," Heather said with a sigh.

"What would she have done in the same circumstance?" Grissom asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, I imagine she'd have done the same thing," Heather answered with a lifeless chuckle. "But that doesn't make it any easier. She's been through a lot these past few days. She needs to vent."

"You don't deserve that," Grissom offered.

"Quite the contrary, I hope. You see, Mr. Grissom, the fact that she feels comfortable being angry with me is reassuring. Our relationship is still solid, despite all that has occurred. She feels safe expressing her feelings with me. She trusts that I'll understand, and that I'll love and support her, even if she's being what you might consider unfair."

"That's an unusual way of looking at it," Sara admitted.

"Unusual for you, perhaps. I would imagine that you didn't have the same luxury of expressing yourself when you were very young."

"What makes you think that?" Sara asked defensively.

"You give off the aura of one who has a lot going on in the inside, but you hold back letting it out. That usually stems from not being allowed to express yourself when you were a child. Or even if you did, it wasn't honored and valued."

"Are you a psychologist ... or a sadist?" Sara asked in a clipped tone.

"They aren't mutually exclusive, judging from my clientele," Heather laughed.

"I think I'll go back to the lab," Sara said, turning to Grissom, who had been taking in the conversation, trying to fit the pieces into the jigsaw puzzle that he was constructing in his mind. In the completed center of the imaginary puzzle was an image of Sara, but he was missing the majority of the pieces that surrounded her, that would put her in context.

"Is the truth so horrible that you have to run any time anyone gets close to it?" Heather asked, halting Sara in her tracks.

Sara dipped her head for a moment, her back to Heather and Grissom. She took a deep breath and held it several seconds, both trying to calm herself and to decide whether to reply or simply walk away. Her instincts were actually more intense: run or explode.

_"Let's run away, Sara. Let's get out of here before he kills one of us," her brother whispered in the night. Larry was passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. It was a comforting sound to them. _

_"What about Mom?" Sara asked. _

_"She won't go. I don't know why, but she won't. Maybe it'll make it better for her if we leave. That way, we won't be making Larry mad all the time."_

_"I didn't think of that. Maybe he'd be nice to Mom if we weren't around."_

_They plotted and planned for the day that never came. Children's services picked them up before they could put their plan into motion. _

"You know nothing about my past, my truth. Save your armchair psychoanalysis for your clients."

"I don't need to know the specifics. I've seen it time and again. How do you think a business like mine survives, much less thrives?"

"I have no idea. The whole idea of it is abhorrent."

_"You disgust me! You and both of those little bastards of yours! I don't know why I even put up with your shit. All three of you would be living in a box and starving to death if it wasn't for me. All I ask for is a little respect, but instead I get attitude."_

_The memory suddenly ceased with the familiar sound, between a thud and a slap, of him backhanding her mother._

"Is it? Is it really? You have years, probably decades, of anger in you. Hatred, perhaps. It's eating at you bit by bit. Your ability to hide it from yourself and everyone else is starting to slip. Your ability to cope with it grows weaker by the day."

"Shut up," Sara growled, turning to face Heather.

"You hate him. You know you do. You hate what he did to you. You hate him for what he took from you. He disrespected you. He devalued you. You were an object, not a human being," Heather continued.

"Shut up!" Sara snapped.

_"Shut up!" she yelled, holding her small hands over her ears. Some primal part of her had reasoned that the yelling led to the beatings, and that she could prevent them if she could stop the yelling. _

_"What did you say to me, you little bitch?" he said, turning to face her with pure cruelty hardening his eyes. _

_"No more yelling!"_

_"Don't you ever tell me what to do! I'll show you who's boss around here!"_

"Heather, that's enough!" Grissom interjected, physically moving between the two women.

"I'm not saying this to hurt her. The anger and pain she's showing were already there," Heather said calmly, but firmly, looking Grissom squarely in the eye.

"She doesn't want your so-called help," Grissom said, taking Sara by the arm, not surprised to find her trembling in his grasp.

"What she wants and what she needs are miles apart."

"Come on, I'll drive you home," Grissom said, leaning over towards Sara. He took a step, but she was unsteady, and he stopped to let her take another deep breath to gather strength.

"You have choices, Ms. Sidle. You can come to my domain, free of charge of course, and act out your anger and hatred. You'd be pleasantly surprised at how much better you'd feel afterward."

It was always a little better after someone got beaten – at least for a little while. The rage that built up in him, fueled by the alcohol, had been spent for a time.

"I kill myself before I'd do something that disgusting," Sara murmured.

"Or you can try to continue to ignore it. But you've already seen the demon grows larger every day. It's only going to get bigger unless you exorcise it."

"You feel steady now?" Grissom asked, anxious to get her away from the dominatrix.

Sara nodded shakily, and Grissom began to lead her down the hall, away from her tormenter.

"Or, you could make the demon shrink by letting it out, a bit at a time, with someone you trust. Talking takes longer than my services would, but it also builds a connection with someone else. A bond of trust. Do you trust anyone, Ms. Sidle? I doubt it. But if you could, that would be your only other option. Let the demon out before it kills you," she said with a firm, loud voice, though not shouting, which would be unseemly for person of culture.

_The school nurse pulled up Sara's tee shirt, exposing her back. _

_"Who did this to you?"_

_"Nobody. I fell down."_

_"Sara, I'm a nurse. I can tell the difference between a beating and falling down."_

_A torturous silence filled the air. _

_"You can trust me. Tell me who did this to you, and I can make it stop."_

_"Larry."_

_"Who's Larry?"_

_"The man we live with. My mother's boyfriend."_

_"You don't have to worry about anything like this ever again. Larry will never do this to anyone again," the nurse said confidently. _

Grissom led Sara down the hallway, pushing open the door that revealed something they didn't often see, the harsh light of the Nevada day. Each of them automatically slipped on their ubiquitous sunglasses, like creatures of the night protecting themselves from the searing sunlight.

Between the heat and the brightness of the sun, especially in summer, it was a frequent joke around the lab that the night shift were all vampires who would likely burst into flames if they ever ventured out except under the cloak of darkness.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," Grissom said lowly, steering Sara towards his SUV.

"No, I'm fine," she demurred.

"Less than two minutes ago you couldn't even walk steadily. I'm not letting you drive like that."

"It was just the adrenaline. I'm fine now. Really. I'll see you tonight," she said distractedly, looking over Grissom's should at Zoe Grey, who was leaning against her mother's car.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a stubborn streak?" Grissom asked in a tone that mixed humor with an equal measure of exasperation.

"Once. Maybe twice," she answered, smiling at him, though not the grin he might have hoped for.

"Sara, I know you don't need my help. Anybody's help. But you don't have to do everything on your own. 'A burden shared is a burden halved'."

"I know. But I'm fine. Really. I want to say goodbye to Zoe, then I'm heading straight home. I promise."

Grissom watched her move lankily towards the young woman, satisfying himself that she was steadier now. He felt torn in half. One part of him wanted to demand that she quit being so stubborn and allow him to help her. The other part wanted to respect her wishes and be proud of her courage.

He tentatively opened the door to his SUV and climbed inside. He waited and watched a moment after he started the engine, just in case she changed her mind, though he knew on a rational level that she wouldn't. Knowing he couldn't gracefully delay any longer, Grissom left, a plan beginning to coalesce in his consciousness.

"Hey," Sara called out to Zoe.

"Hello."

"I'm sorry about everything that's happened."

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything."

"Funny, I said those exact words to someone not long ago. About pretty much the same thing."

"Oh really? Where you beaten and raped? Had your family torn apart? Had one of your parents arrested?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Sara answered heavily.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm glad you have your mother to rely on. I didn't have anyone like that in my life."

"Sucks to be you," Zoe said, though she felt a twinge of remorse for directing her anger at Sara.

"Yeah, it does sometimes."

"To be honest, I don't know how well I would have dealt with all of this if I didn't have my mother's strength to draw on."

"She's, yeah, strong," Sara agreed.

"You probably don't like her," Zoe hazarded.

"It seems to be mutual. She just gave me an earful in the station."

"She's not one to hold back. Not anymore anyway. You probably don't know much about her, other than what you can see or the innuendo you've heard."

"No, I can't say I really know your mother at all. I know what she does for a living, and that's about it."

"You wouldn't believe her childhood. Unbelievable abuse of every kind. She's never spoken of it, but my dad has told me a lot about it. He knew her back when they were kids living on the same block."

"I guess that explains a lot."

"Don't judge my mother," Zoe snapped. "She suffered even more than she had to because of the self-righteous attitudes that surrounded her. Her family put on airs like they were the salt of the earth, but they were the biggest hypocrites you could imagine."

"I wasn't judging her. I just meant that I guess her abuse is what led her into her profession. Sort of like a catharsis."

"You're just looking at the surface, like most people. Sure, some people never get any deeper into the philosophy, and they're there to get or give humiliation, or to try to control. But others come to understand after a while that it's all about what you think about yourself. No one can control you. No one can humiliate you. No one can take anything from you. You have to let them."

"I can tell you that I damn sure never _let_ anyone do anything to me!" Sara spouted.

"I don't mean you control the actions. I mean you control the effects. Someone can take your body, but they can't take your spirit. Unless you give it to them."

"I think I understand what you're saying," Sara admitted.

"My mother wants people to get to the point where they understand that. I was lucky. I was raised that way. Other people have to learn it the hard way. Like you. But you survived. Don't you see that? You survived. You won."

"Doesn't feel like I won."

"But you did. Life crammed all the shit it could down your throat, but you survived. You aren't some ax-murderer roaming the streets, blaming your upbringing or society for your own evil. You turned out all right."

"Thank you. That might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time," Sara said with a mirthless chuckle.

"And I'll be all right. It's nice to have family and friends to be able to lean on, but I know that in the end I'm the one who has to make all of this count for something positive in my life."

"I believe you can do it," Sara said confidently.

"I know I can do it. My mother was already an excellent role model, and now I know two women who beat the odds."

"In my wildest imaginings, I never thought I'd have anything in common with Lady Heather!" Sara laughed.

"You don't. Not with Lady Heather. But with Heather Grey, you do. I think you might like my mom, if you got to know her."

"Every time I get around her, it's like an intervention," Sara quipped.

"Then she must really like you. If she didn't, she wouldn't bother. Not for free," Zoe said with a laugh.

"You plan on going back to Harvard?" Sara asked.

"Yeah, I'm leaving in a couple of days. I know I'll be a little homesick for a while, but once I get back with my friends at school, I'll settle in."

"You going to tell them what happened to you?"

"Some of them, sure. They're my friends. They'd know something was up. You've got to trust the people you care about."

"Yeah," Sara said, nodding her agreement, though it didn't ring completely true in her heart.

"I better go back in before my mom thinks I've run away from home," Zoe said, pushing herself up off the car. "I've been sort of snitty with her about my dad. But I know she did the right thing. My dad was trying, but given the chance, he almost always makes the wrong decision. But he's my dad and I love him."

"If I don't see you before you leave for school, it was an honor meeting you," Sara said genuinely.

"Same here. Gotta run!" Zoe said, her youthful exuberance returning as she strode quickly towards the doors to the police station.

"You've got to trust the people you care about." That's true, Zoe, but what do you do when the people you care about, that you want to trust, have let you down? Do you trust them again? Or do you pull the armor on tighter, vowing to never be betrayed again?

Sara walked slowly over to her own SUV, pulling herself tiredly up into the leather seat. She breathed out and laid her head back onto the headrest, willing her thoughts to stop swimming wildly in her mind.

The picture of Heather Grey given to her by Zoe was in stark contrast to the picture she had formed in her mind. She was having a hard time reconciling the two, yet it gave her an insight into how Grissom might have found her alluring.

It seemed to Sara that everything she ever knew about life was really upside-down and backwards from reality. It was like she woke up one day to find that the language she had always spoken was a totally different language than others spoke. Only other people with similar backgrounds understood her native tongue.

As a child, she had been told she was stupid and lazy, so she tried with all the energy she could muster to prove Larry wrong. But he'd always been wrong.

When he blamed her for "enticing" him, she quit trying to look pretty, though she couldn't hide her natural beauty.

She'd been blamed for the beatings, being told she'd been bad. From that point on, she'd made it a point to be good, and dreamed of working to help others. Only recently, in therapy, did she see that she'd never done anything to deserve Larry's wrath.

She had a hard time receiving praise, and found it almost impossible to praise herself. She'd never reached the pinnacle of perfection that would make her world safe, so she never felt deserving of accolades.

She had difficulty expressing the softer emotions, fearing it would expose weaknesses that others could exploit. You cannot be betrayed by anyone you don't trust or care about. But now she could see the strength created by the love and trust between Zoe and Heather.

Sara wondered if her entire life had been a dream – or, rather, a nightmare – that she was just waking up from. Everything seemed different now. No, not completely different, but at least potentially different.

Before, she hadn't held out much hope that any day would be any better than the day before it. If anything, it might be worse. But now, she wasn't so sure.

Sara wanted to explore these new thoughts more, but certainly not in an SUV sitting in a police station parking lot. She began to think about a long, hot bath by candlelight, with soothing music wafting from the CD player on the vanity.

She would sooth her body, her mind, and her soul. She resolved that today would be the day she would let go of the past and begin to live again.

_TBC_


	7. Bear Ye One Another's Burdens

**Tortured Reasoning  
********Authors: **Mossley and Burked  
**Summary:** It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.  
**A/N:** Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes aren't her fault.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer: **We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.

**Chapter 7 - Bear Ye One Another's Burdens**

Condensation from the long-forgotten glass of iced tea slowly seeped onto the breakfast bar, but Sara's attention was focused solely on the photographs spread before her. With a remorseful air, her fingers traced over the faded faces before moving to wipe the moisture from her cheek.

It had been one thing to vow to let go of her past and start living again, but Sara knew that first she had to come to terms with her troubled childhood. For years, she'd told herself it was over, that it had no impact on her present, but now she realized that was a myth.

Instead of dealing with the pain, she ran. First getting into college early, moving across the continent, physically distancing herself from the source of the torment. Later, she dove into her work, pushing a professional satisfaction to cover for her personal unhappiness.

But the abuse she had suffered formed the foundation of the life she built for herself, and the cracks were becoming more pronounced.

The damage had always been there, just below the surface. Trust was something rarely given; she had a drive to succeed, to be recognized, that bordered on obsessive; nagging questions about her self-worth, especially in personal matters, continually gnawed at her confidence.

Now Sara knew she had to address her demons. They were creeping out of her nightmares and into everyday life. Her ability to deal with cases was suffering, and her turn to alcohol had been a near-disaster.

The question was how to do it.

_Was Heather right? There's no way in hell I'd take her up on her offer. I don't care if it's an act or not, there's no way I'd take a whip to someone. And I'll never let someone do that to me. _

_But I have to do something. Talking never helped, but it was always to the school counselor who Child Services made me see or my PEAP counselor. I had to tell them; it wasn't like they really cared about me. And I didn't trust them. That wasn't a recipe for success. _

_Is there anyone I trust enough to talk about this? _

_Grissom … I, I don't think so …_

_Nick and Warrick are cool, but this isn't something I want to share with them. We're friends and all, but it's not like we're that close. Greg – he'd treat it like a joke. Cath would probably understand, but I can't talk to her. Jim, maybe, but he can be so damn protective. He'd probably get me assigned to permanent lab duty or something so I won't have to deal with the victims. _

_Who else is left? _

_Grissom …_

_Okay, yeah, I guess I do trust him. More than anyone else, at least. I could tell him, but then what? He gets tongue-tied if you talk about anything outside of work. I don't know how much he could help. _

_Huh. _

_Maybe he doesn't have to say anything. Maybe just talking, knowing there's someone I can trust, maybe that would help. My PEAP counselor seemed to think so. _

_I'm starting to think I should have paid more attention to her. I treated the whole thing as something I _had_ to complete, not as something that could be helpful. I went through the motions, but I didn't listen._

When her cell phone rang, Sara swung her head slowly to the side to look at it. She briefly considered not answering it; work didn't seem that interesting – or important – at the moment. The second ring shattered her hesitation. Letting out a huff, she slid off the barstool to retrieve it.

"Sidle."

"Hey, Sara. How are you?"

She raised an eyebrow automatically; Grissom sounded almost nervous. Considering her behavior the last time he called, Sara decided he probably expected her to snap his head off.

"I'm fine."

"Good. You sound tired. I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. I was about to take a long soak in the tub."

"Uh, huh. Is that something that can wait?"

"Sure. Did something go wrong on the case?"

"Uh, no."

"New case?"

"No, no."

Her lips twitched involuntarily; he was definitely nervous. "Are there piranhas loose in the Las Vegas water system?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Grissom replied after a stunned silence.

"I might be going out on a limb here, but I'm guessing there's a reason you asked me to put off my bath."

"I, uh, well, I'm on my way up to your apartment now."

Sara pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. She wrapped her sweater tighter around herself and slowly walked the few steps to the door. After opening it, she stepped into the hallway in time to see him emerge from the stairway, juggling both his phone and a pair of paper grocery bags.

"Hi," Grissom said, shifting a bag to allow him to put his cell phone away. His stride was cautious as he walked to the still-staring Sara. The longer she gawked at him, the more forced his smile became. "Can I come in?" he asked after an awkward silence.

"Yeah. Sorry," she replied, stepping aside to let him in. "What's up?"

"Dinner."

"Huh?"

Sara's expression caused Grissom's smile to regain some of its original luster. He lifted the packages in his hands. "Both of us worked all day yesterday, so I brought us a belated Thanksgiving dinner."

Sara stood there silently, watching as he headed into the kitchen. Giving her head a bewildered shake, she followed him. After setting the bags down in the small kitchen, Grissom pulled a container of ice cream out and handed it towards her.

"Could you put this in the freezer, please? They were out of pumpkin pie, so I picked up apple instead. Is that okay?"

"Wha? Yeah. Sure."

"Good. The only other choice they had was banana cream."

Sara eventually remembered to close her cell phone, setting it down on the breakfast bar while watching Grissom putter around her small kitchen like it was an everyday occurrence. She knew she was tired, but enough to be hallucinating?

"I _do_ have a can opener," she managed to say, spotting the utensil he set next to a can of cranberry sauce.

Grissom gave a half-apologetic smile. The truth was he had no idea what type of kitchen supplies she possessed, knowing that she preferred carryout to cooking. He hadn't wanted to take the time to head home and risk her going to bed before he arrived.

"Do you have any aluminum foil?"

"No."

He pulled a box of foil from a bag, winking at Sara's annoyed glare. After quickly ripping off a sheet and placing some rolls inside of it, Grissom handed it to her. "Want to put the bread in the oven to warm up? Thanks."

As she took it, he felt his self-confidence wane. His intention had been to be there for Sara if she felt like talking. But that would involve trust, and things between them had been strained for too long for her to openly trust him. Grissom thought this would be a nice way to put them back on a more comfortable level.

The guarded way she was regarding him made him wonder if this had been a good idea. Grissom paused in his preparations to scratch his beard. He wanted to do something but was concerned about pushing Sara. The last thing he wanted to do was to make things worse.

"Is everything okay? I can leave if…"

Sara's hands reached up to rub her temples slowly. Of all the times to pick to show up, he chose the day she was at her emotional low point. Her life was complicated enough already without Grissom adding to her confusion. And she wasn't sure she'd be able to hold her temper if he unveiled some sort of meat product.

"No … it's … I'm sorry. I'm not in a great mood. You should have called first. Before you got here."

"You told me not to call you," Grissom pointed out, deliberately keeping his tone light as he moved to the other bag.

"I think it's safe to say that the same stipulations that go with calling me apply to showing up at my apartment. Sparkling cider?"

He didn't miss the sarcastic undertone to her question. Alcohol was a touchy subject, and he felt it safer not to bring any to the meal. Reaching around her to place it in the fridge, Grissom smiled weakly.

"I didn't know if red or white wine went with processed soybean curds."

Sara blinked at him slowly, her earlier irritability softening. "Tofu?"

"Tofurky," Grissom corrected, sounding out the name carefully as he pulled out the pre-packaged meal. As a scientist, he was curious how they made a vegan turkey giblet gravy, but his epicurean side overruled, deciding some questions were better left unanswered.

"You brought me tofu."

"The entire meal is vegan," he said, pointing out the dumplings and wild rice. "They sell them as a package."

"You remembered?"

Grissom doubted that was a fact he'd ever forget, given the reaction the last time it happened, but he was glad that he had remembered. Sara was clearly surprised that he'd taken her eating preferences into account.

"Of course," he said, turning back to prepare the dishes for heating. Placing the food into her oven, he leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest lightly. Sara had moved to the other side of the breakfast bar, her elbows resting on its top. Grissom kept a calm smile as she continued to observe him.

"It'll be about forty minutes before it's ready. So," he exhaled, trying to sound nonchalant, "what do you want to talk about?"

"Oh, that was real smooth," Sara said, rolling her eyes in his direction.

"For me, it probably was."

Despite her moodiness, a faint smile graced her lips. Her fingers found a loose thread in her sweater and they plucked at it distractedly. After a beat, she cocked her head to the side and gave him a quizzical look.

"Grissom, this was, uh, nice of you. Really. So, please, don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell are you doing here?"

Mentally, he considered potential answers. The truth was he wasn't entirely sure why he was here. Repairing their friendship was part of it, but he was also concerned about Sara's well being. Heather's statements had forced him to re-evaluate her reactions to cases, and his own treatment of her, but he doubted Sara would appreciate his pointing that out.

Despite her assurances at the station, he knew she was upset. Watching her now, it was clear that something was deeply troubling her. Something more than their case. And that was unsettling to him. It had been an interesting revelation to learn that he couldn't bear the thought of her in pain.

Even now, Grissom was trying to decide if his prior inattention had been an act of self-preservation; if he ignored Sara's growing distance, he wouldn't have to face whatever was causing her pain.

He settled on, "I didn't want you to skip the holiday."

Sara seemed to consider that answer for a long moment before tilting her head in his direction. "You skip them. All the time."

He nodded in silent concession before dropping his eyes to the floor. His face scrunched slightly; he needed to get Sara talking, but that would probably work better if he broke the ice.

"Mother doesn't like Vegas," he answered, looking up to see her giving him a slacked-jaw stare. "What?"

Sara gave her head a slight shake. "Nothing. You've never mentioned your mother before. I didn't realize she was still alive."

"She's semi-retired from her gallery. She's still in California. We e-mail each other several times a week."

"You could go back home to see her."

"I could. But when I go home, Mother insists on fixing a huge dinner herself. With her arthritis, that's too much work for her, but she refuses to let me cook. If I don't go, she's content to eat at my cousin's house."

Grissom watched as Sara idly played with her half-empty glass of tea. She didn't volunteer any information, so he took a deep breath before giving a self-deprecating sigh.

"And then there are the lectures."

He openly smiled at the astounded look Sara gave him.

"Your mother lectures you?"

"I think all mothers lecture their children. I'm sure you had them."

_"They arrested Larry because of you! You're always causing problems, you ungrateful bitch! What lies did you tell them?"_

_"Mommy, no! The school nurse …"_

_"God, you're nothing but trouble. You're worthless! No wonder no one can stand you. I wish you'd never been born."_

"I doubt we had the same type of lectures," Sara snapped, setting her glass down hard enough to rattle the remnants of the ice cubes inside.

Grissom pushed off the counter, slowly crossing over to the breakfast bar as he tried to figure out what he'd said wrong. By the time he reached the barrier, Sara had let out a long breath.

"Sorry," she said softly.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Grissom watched as she shook her head, his frown deepening as he recalled her earlier outburst when he mentioned her childhood. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, but he desperately hoped the picture that was emerging was wrong.

"One disadvantage of being an only child – your mother never truly accepts you're grown up," he added with a bit of a shrug. Grissom waited patiently, hoping for her to respond. His tongue ran over his dried lips during the continued silence.

"Mother never understood the job or what I see in it. She doesn't think it's healthy dealing with so much death. She's worried that it affects me." A hint of sadness made its way into his voice. "I'm a professor; she thinks I should be in a university."

Grissom didn't add that his mother also continued to ask when he was going to settle down and start a family. Sara was already treating him like he had grown an extra head; that piece of information could really complicate things.

Sara cocked her head as she pulled her sweater closer. She recognized what Grissom was doing, and she understood the significance of it. After a long evaluation, she gave him a half-smirk. "You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to."

"Why?"

The simple question startled Grissom. There had been a catch in Sara's voice, but when he looked up, she'd composed herself. He took a moment to think, walking over to the oven to check on the food as a cover.

"Like I said, I thought we could … talk," he answered.

"Talk?"

Turning back around, Grissom lifted his eyebrows pointedly. "It's not a dirty word. You do seem intent to avoid it."

"It?"

"I know something is bothering you," he said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. "Why do you avoid talking about whatever it is?"

"The last time I talked about 'it', I lost what was left of my family," Sara whispered sadly. Seeing his distressed look, she mentally winced and decided against adding more. "Besides, you're the one who's always warning us to avoid personal stuff."

"When it comes to work. We're not at work now."

Sara's eyebrow went up slowly. He was offering, but could he handle it? His earlier reaction concerned her. And in spite of his gestures, she had lingering doubts about how serious he was.

"Are you here because you want to be, or because what Lady Heather said at the station made you feel … guilty?"

Grissom dropped his head, huffing out a breath as he did so. Looking up, he held her gaze, despite his sheepish expression. His eyes were dark with emotion when he replied.

"Her words may have pushed me, but the concern is real. It always has been, regardless of how poorly I may have shown it."

It was Sara's turn to break eye contact. His openness was promising, but she'd been hurt by him before; it was hard to work up the courage to trust him with something so personal.

"You're not exactly known for your conversation skills," she quipped, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.

"Then maybe it's something I should work on."

"Well, maybe you need a better partner to practice with. I'm not a great talker, either."

"No, then I'd be out of my league. I have a chance of holding my own with you," Grissom teased, pleased to see a brief smile.

Sara considered her options carefully. This was dangerous ground. Willingly exposing herself went against every lesson that life had cruelly taught her. There would be no going back if she told him; there was no way of knowing how it would affect their relationship, both personal and professional.

Steeling herself, Sara finally gave him a half-hearted shrug and rolled her eyes.

"It's funny. I was thinking about this before you showed up," she told him reluctantly.

"That I'm out of my league?"

"Not exactly," Sara chuckled, staring at her interlocked fingers. "My PEAP counselor had suggested I talk to you when I got back from my vacation."

"But you never did," he pointed out.

"No. It was only a suggestion, and I wasn't sure I agreed with it. The timing never seemed right. Something always came up at the lab."

"I'm here now," Grissom said, his voice soft.

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly the type of thing you want to talk about over dinner."

Sensing her hesitation, he didn't push. After taking a moment to check on the meal, Grissom saw that Sara had begun to clear off the breakfast bar. She'd paused at a group of photographs, handling them almost reverently. Her gaze lingered on one in particular; from his current position, he could see it was of two children.

"You and your brother?" he ventured.

"Yeah. Pete."

His smile faded as he moved closer. Originally, Grissom thought Sara's brother shared her naturally lean frame, but his improved view showed two children that were far too thin. The picture also captured the natural energy of youth, but both of them looked more likely to run, or flinch, than to play.

"Where's your brother now?" he asked gently.

"I don't know."

Sara walked towards a bookcase, carefully putting the pictures away. On the way back to the counter, she gave Grissom a sharp look as he eyed her cautiously.

_It's now or never. _

"We were split up when we were put into foster care."

She waited for him to pull back, but he didn't. After his initial surprise, Grissom's eyes held nothing but compassion. Sara swallowed the lump that formed in her throat.

"I saw him once after that. He showed up at the home I was in and gave me a couple grand in cash. Pete said he'd be back soon to take me away. He said he'd take care of me."

"You don't know what happened to him?"

"I think he found a nice girl and is living on a beach somewhere in Mexico."

"And he abandoned you?" Grissom asked harshly, leaning back when Sara flashed an angry glare at him.

"Think about it, Grissom! He was barely eighteen. Where the hell do you think he got that type of money?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Drugs?"

"I don't know what else it could have been," she said wearily, resting her arms on the breakfast bar. "I checked. Pete's not in the system anywhere. He didn't get arrested, and if he died, his body was never found."

"I … I'm sorry for your loss."

Sara darted her eyes around the room before tentatively facing Grissom. She took a deep breath before continuing. "I want him to be living somewhere, anywhere, being happy. He deserves it after the shit we lived through."

Grissom mimicked Sara's position on his side of the breakfast bar. His hand didn't take hers, but it rested beside it, gently brushing up against it.

"What about you?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm alive," Sara said, smiling at her weak attempt at humor.

"Are you happy?"

"No. Not really," she admitted, blinking back the tears that threatened to start.

Grissom's mind raced through the implications of her statement. Despite the clues, he hadn't wanted to believe she'd suffered. Slowly, his hand moved to rest on top of hers, tenderly squeezing it in support.

"I … I spent years telling myself that it was all over, but I ignored what it did to me. I still have … issues. I hate to admit it, but Heather was right," she said, rolling her eyes in mock-defeat. "And don't even think of suggesting I go to her domain."

"I wouldn't. I know what you think about it."

"I don't understand that lifestyle. I don't. I get that it's consensual, and it's theater and all that, but it's something I could never do," Sara said.

"It wasn't the only suggestion Heather made," Grissom noted.

"Yeah. We're talking."

He nodded, letting his thumb slightly caress her hand. "Do you want to talk some more?"

"Uh, no, I don't _want_ to, but I think I _should_. This is your chance to remember your bugs or something."

"My bugs are fine."

"This is very awkward. I told you I wasn't a great talker."

"Can I help?" Grissom asked.

"I think you're doing enough. It's … I, I'm finally realizing how right Heather was. It is eating at me."

"What, exactly, is 'it'?" he asked, his voice strained from forcing it to remain steady.

"Are you certain you want to know?"

"I think not knowing is worse."

Sara shrugged. "Maybe not. You know what they say. 'Ignorance is bliss.'"

"I may be ignorant in many ways, but I can tell you I'm not blissful," Grissom stated. That earned him a weak smile, but Sara still seemed hesitant. "Where are your parents?"

"Dad died years ago."

"Were you close?"

"Yeah. I guess. Dad was a bit … distracted. He was lost in thought a lot. Pete used to say he was flaky. Half the time we wondered if he heard what we said to him, but deep down, we always knew he cared, even if he wasn't very good at showing it."

"What about your mother?"

"I haven't seen her in years."

Grissom's eyes narrowed slightly. The wistful quality that had been present when Sara talked about her father and brother had been replaced by a harsher tone.

"Was she taking care of you when you were put in foster care?"

"Yeah. If you want to call it 'taking care'."

"What happened?"

"Damned if I know," Sara said, pulling away and standing up quickly. She walked across the room, stopping in front of her window. Hearing Grissom's steps, she looked around to see him move to her side.

"I don't know what happened. After Dad died, she … changed."

"Was she depressed?"

"That was probably part of it," Sara admitted. "But … it's like she was a totally different person."

"And not in a good way," he guessed.

"No. Then she met Larry."

The vicious way she said the name startled Grissom. He swallowed uneasily. "Tell me about him."

"He was a bastard," she spat out, turning on her heel to return to the breakfast bar.

"Did he hurt your mother?" When she nodded without facing him, Grissom moved closer. "Did he hurt you and your brother?"

"Yeah," Sara whispered. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the memories coursed through her mind. Part of her wanted to pull back, to stop talking about it, but the floodgates had opened.

"He was a drunk. A mean drunk. He'd beat whichever of us he'd find first. Mom, God! She never tried to protect us. It's like she didn't care what he did."

"Abuse victims live in a world of fear…"

She turned around rapidly, her eyes flashing angrily. "Don't try to justify what she did!"

"I'm sorry, Sara. I'm not," Grissom apologized. "I was trying to put it in perspective. There's no excuse for what happened."

"No, there wasn't. I, I'm sorry. It's not easy to talk about."

"I can only imagine."

"Hell, I didn't tell anyone," she snorted heatedly.

"You weren't the adult," Grissom pointed out.

"I was one of the ones being hurt."

"But you did tell someone?"

"My PE teacher saw my back one day when I was changing after class. I tried to say I fell down, but she sent me to the school nurse. She told me that they could make whoever was hurting me stop, so I told her Larry beat me."

Her strained voice made Grissom uneasy, as was the frantic way she was pacing around the apartment. "Sara?"

"God, I thought they'd make Larry go away, but the next thing I know, I'm in the hospital having a SAE kit done," she said hoarsely. "When they got the results back from that, they took Mom away, too."

Grissom felt his heart racing. Her words struck him like a punch in the stomach. He'd suspected, even feared, that it was true, but his mind screamed against the acknowledgement.

"How old were you?" he asked, tensely waiting when she stopped to tightly grab the back of a barstool, her breath coming in ragged gulps.

"Twelve."

Sara lifted her head cautiously, but Grissom's expression cut through her. He was staring at her with an unmistakable look of disbelief. She spun around quickly, her fists clutching painfully as she cursed herself for thinking he'd be there for her.

_I knew he didn't really want to know. Why did I think he would? God, how many times am I going to set myself up like this? I know what the result's going to be. _

_I will not cry. I won't do that, not in front of him. Not now. _

The hand that landed on her shoulder startled Sara. Turning around, she unconsciously stepped backwards when their eyes met; Grissom's earlier doubts had been replaced by pure rage.

Seeing her fear, he closed his eyes briefly, and the depth of pain present when he reopened them made Sara regret having told him. Her concerns that he wouldn't be able to handle the truth seemed to be true. Some hidden demon of his own prevented Grissom from being able to deal with emotional issues.

"Hey, no. You know what? I shouldn't have said anything. This doesn't involve you. Forget all this, okay? Look, why don't you…"

"Sara," he groaned.

She stood still as he tentatively moved to her, his hands moving with deliberate slowness to rest on her shoulders. When she didn't pull back, Grissom slid them down her arms and then around her back, pulling her into a clumsy hug.

Her arms went around his waist when his head dropped beside hers. She could feel his muscles quivering as he tried to control his reaction. The silent gesture touched her more deeply than anything he could say.

"It's okay," she whispered.

Grissom tasted blood as he bit his lip, but the pain was lost amid his mental anguish. Closing his eyes tightly, he nestled his head closer to hers and tried to make some sense of the gamut of emotions coursing through is body.

Sadness, fear and pain alternately stabbed his heart. There was disgust at a parent who allowed her children to be hurt, and a fury unlike anything he'd ever experienced directed towards this Larry that had stolen Sara's innocence and ruined her childhood.

And there was the self-loathing.

Grissom's mind replayed every instance where he'd purposefully drove a wedge between them in an effort to protect himself, thinking that she was the stronger one. He'd been right about that; his own fears paled in comparison to what she'd been through, yet Sara was the one brave enough to risk trying.

He'd been a coward.

Even faced with the truth, he couldn't find the words to comfort her. Instead, she was trying to make him feel better.

They both felt the moisture at the same time. Sara started to step away as she wiped at her tears, but Grissom shook his head. He pulled her back, cradling her body gingerly against his.

"Let it out," he insisted, one hand wrapping around her protectively while the other buried in her hair. "Just let it out."

Sara tried to fight the tears, but Grissom continued his urgings. The feel of his whiskers against her neck as he whispered soft encouragements, the heat from his body, the strength of his muscles reassured her, and she finally broke down.

"God, I hate him. I hate him," she sobbed repeatedly into the material of his shirt, the anger morphing into sadness.

Grissom continued to hold her, running his hand in soothing circles over her back, letting her release the years of built-up anger and pain. As the tears eventually slowed, she began to shake her head.

"Why didn't my mother care?"

"Shh, Sara, shh."

"No. How screwed up do you have to be that your own mother doesn't love you? I tried to be good. I…"

"Stop it! You did nothing wrong. You know that," Grissom said, instinctively pulling her even closer when he felt her trembling.

"Is it wrong to want to be loved?"

"No," he whispered, his self-loathing multiplying. "Sara, I…"

"Don't," she said forcefully, pushing away from him. "Don't say anything."

"But…"

"No!"

Grissom stood there hopelessly, unsure of what to do next. He wanted to try to explain, but her statement had been adamant.

"Don't say anything now," Sara repeated, her tone gentler.

"I," he stammered, running his hand through his hair impatiently.

"Trust me, it won't help. There is no 'right' thing to say now. I've heard it all. Pity makes it worse, and people trying to say something supportive gets old fast."

"Sara, I'm not … I," he exhaled sadly, his eyes looking at her imploringly. "I'm not trying to make small talk. I do…"

She shook her head, her mind racing at his reaction. "No! Look, nothing's changed. Don't say something now that isn't … going to happen. It'll only be worse in the long run – for both of us."

He dropped his head, breathing out heavily through his nose. Glancing up, he started to move towards her, but Sara held up her hands and stepped away.

"Look, you better check on the food. I'll be out in a minute," she said, embarrassedly disappearing into the bathroom.

Grissom sighed and dropped his head in dejection. What could he have said? Sara may have been correct that nothing would have helped, but he felt inadequate. Heading into the kitchen, he distracted himself by finishing the dinner preparations. He was looking for her dishes when Sara returned.

Her face was washed, but the evidence of her tears was still there. He could see that she was timid. It was easy to understand. It had been hard for him to open up about his mother. Sara had bared her soul to him.

He tried to smile reassuringly as she approached. She gave a brief nod in acknowledgment before licking her lips. With a sigh, she reached out and rested a hand on his arm.

"You don't _have_ to say anything. This, being here, it meant so much to me. Thank you."

* * *

"Sara, come here, please." 

Pausing outside Grissom's office, she closed her eyes briefly. Dinner had been an awkward affair, neither of them entirely comfortable with so much left unsaid between them. While Sara planned on thanking him again, she has also been dreading this.

"Hey," she said, leaning against his doorframe.

"Come on in. Close the door."

She complied after a moment's hesitation, trying to decipher what would happen next. Sara attempted to emotionally brace herself before taking a seat in front of his desk and forcing a smile. "Thanks, again. For dinner. And everything."

"I wish I could have done something more helpful."

"You did more than you think."

His lips pursed thoughtfully, and he took a long time to study Sara. He wiped a hand over his face before continuing.

"I thought you should hear this from me. I talked to Jim. Grey is trying to cut a deal with the D.A."

"What? We nailed him."

"His attorney is pressing for diminished capacity."

"That's bullshit!"

Grissom shrugged. "And Grey claims to have information on a number of other crimes. He's willing to talk. Brass doubts the D.A. will go beyond dropping the death penalty."

"It was calculated. It wasn't in the heat of the moment. That's murder."

"Grey's lawyer thinks he can convince a jury otherwise."

"I don't believe it," she said, shaking her head in disgust.

"Juries don't always rely solely on the evidence. That was one of the hardest lessons I had to learn with this job," Grissom said, dropping his eyes to his desk. "And I think they could sell it. Anybody who had someone they cared about hurt like that – I can see where they would understand that type of rage."

Sara stared at him bewilderedly for a moment, then sank further into the chair. At best, she'd expected him to act like they had never talked, or at worst, to completely withdraw. This disclosure was totally unexpected.

"Do you really think that would work?" she asked, more to break the silence than out of curiosity.

"Apparently, they have psychologists ready to testify."

"Clients of Heather's?" Sara snorted. "Money really does have advantages. Honestly, I'm a little surprised. I wouldn't think she'd want someone who could be that violent around Zoe."

"They're family," he explained.

"Sorry, I can't relate to that. No pun intended."

Grissom put down the form he'd been studying and leaned back in his chair. After a long moment, he gave a shrug.

"I'm guessing you won't be asking for time off around Christmas."

"That would be a safe bet," she answered.

"Hmm. Do you like lasagna?"

"What?"

"It's a layered pasta dish. Garfield is exceptionally fond of it."

"I know what it is. Why are you asking?"

"So I know what to fix for Christmas dinner."

Sara stared incomprehensively at him for a long time. He finally picked up a pen from his desk and began twirling it nervously in his fingers.

"I didn't care for the tofurky," he admitted.

"It was overcooked," she agreed.

Grissom frowned in perplexity. "But you ate two helpings of it."

Sara blushed, turning her head away. She had an abashed expression when she looked back.

"It was the least I could do. It was my fault it was overcooked. I kept crying on your shoulder. Probably ruined your shirt."

"I have plenty of other shirts."

His implication was clear and Sara eventually gave him a wan smile. It didn't last long, and she averted her eyes to study something on the floor.

Grissom took a deep breath, tapping the pen on his desk. "The other option is to be alone, and that is to be in bad company. Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary,_" he added when she gazed at him in surprise.

"Well, I've spent enough holidays alone," Sara said quietly.

"So have I. Too many."

His admission surprised her, not only that Grissom said it, but because the simple phrase managed to carry an emotional depth that moved her deeply.

"'Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family; whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.' Jane Howard. A friend is like a family that you choose."

"I haven't had very much luck with either friends or family. That causes … trust issues."

"I, uh, I may not have the answers, Sara, and I don't express myself well," he said, in what seemed to be a practiced speech. "But I'm willing to listen. You _can_ trust me."

For what felt like an indeterminate time, Sara sat there, blinking occasionally as she processed Grissom's statement. He was trying. It had been obvious that he'd been uncomfortable during their talk, but here he was ready for more. A small spark of hope warmed her more than she thought possible.

Sara eventually leaned back in her chair, her arms crossing in front of her as her lips curled upward. "Okay, but only if I bring the dessert."

"Oh? You didn't like the one I picked out?"

"For Christmas, I think we need an actual homemade dessert."

"You? Cook?" Grissom raised a doubtful eyebrow. "No banana cream?" he intoned seriously.

"Fine. We have a deal?"

"I don't know," he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully while his eyes betrayed an internal dialogue. "Christmas is a major holiday. I'm not sure we can take a chance on not having a real dessert. No, I think we need a practice run."

"What?" Sara asked, leaning forward as if she hadn't heard him properly.

"A practice run, at my house. To see if your dessert is good enough for such a major holiday. Maybe one day next week?" he suggested, resuming his nervous fidgeting with the pen. "We can talk some more, if you want."

Sara's jaw dropped suddenly. She could feel a blush creeping up her cheeks as she shook her head. "I, uh, I don't think so."

Grissom looked up and tried to mask the hurt in his eyes. Sara immediately began to shake her head more vigorously.

"No! I mean, I meant the talking. I don't think I'm up for that again. Yet. Dinner. That would be nice," she clarified.

Grissom let out a relieved breath, giving her a gentle smile. "When you are ready to talk again, let me know."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

Sara felt a toothy grin forming, and she ducked her head down bashfully. When she looked up, Grissom was coming around the corner of his desk. He paused in front of her, leaning against his desk.

"Are you okay?" he asked tenderly, his hand reaching out to brush her shoulder lightly.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I think I'm going to be."

"You'll let me know if I can help?"

Her gaze drifted to the hand still lingering on her shoulder. The sense of renewed friendship, and the possibility of more, revitalized her. The road ahead was still rough, but Sara drew strength from knowing she wouldn't have to face it alone.

"You already are," Sara told him truthfully and smiled.

**The End**


End file.
